


Failure to Stop

by shorthairedbabe



Series: Failure [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fix-It, I can't execute it for shit, I got like this great idea for this and you know what, I mean what else do I add, Low Honor to High Honor Original Female Character, Medium Honor to High Honor Arthur Morgan, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, She's a 21-century woman in the fucking 19th century, Slow Burn, Smut, also pop culture references anyone??, everyone should be in this fucking fic like damn, sweet baby jesus save us all because everyone is going to DIE, what else do i put
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2020-05-19 10:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19355014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shorthairedbabe/pseuds/shorthairedbabe
Summary: "Save him, and you save them all."---Blair Olsen was not one to trust others - not easily to say the least - but with one too many whiskey's in her system and someone willing to feed her for the night, she was willing to go with him.But look where it got her...Pulled into the nearing end of the Nineteenth Century with nothing but her rucksack and unblinding rage for the man that brought her there.





	1. Agathokakological

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh why am I here?  
> Is this the right thing to do, I ain't even half way through my other story but LORD I have been living for some time traveling AU and I kinda wanna try my hand at it.

_Winter of 1898, Southeast of Armadillo_

.-.-.

The first thing that stood out to the both of them was her hair.

A striking blonde color that was a harsh contrast to her all black attire; her all black, shoulder holster that hugged her ribs just right. Her Mauser pistol sat comfortably between her arm and her side as she looked over her shoulder.

The next thing that caught their attention was her eyes.

Those cold, ice blue eyes that seemed to have stared death in the face with a snarl and death himself refused to let her into hell. Ice blue eyes that stood out even against the moonless night and the burning cabin.

She turned to face the two men – her mouth and nose still covered by a thick scarf – and her eyes crinkled slightly as if she was smiling, or grimacing.

Her body turned towards them as they maneuvered themselves around the bodies of dead men.

O’Driscoll Boys.

“Goddamn, woman.” Dutch muttered, stepping over the bodies that she left in her wrath.

“I hope these aren’t your _boys_.” Her voice was low, sultry almost as she whistles a small chirp into the distance.

A mare; which was almost missed if it weren’t riding towards its rider, snorted and neighed happily as she trotted towards the woman clad in black.

Even the woman’s horse was black, with no markings of white on its body. The horse stood tall, its ears pinned up and alert as the woman reached around into her saddle bags to pull out an oat cake and her rope.

“Thankfully, they aren’t.” Dutch found himself looking around, hoping and wondering if she was alone.

If she had murdered all of these O’Driscoll’s _alone_.

“What’s your name, Darlin’?” Hosea asked, tentatively and cautious with his hand on his revolver.

“I think it’s best to stay strangers, my friend.” Her words were calculated; educated as she wrapped the rope around a dead man’s ankles. “People like me only ever bring trouble.”

“Maybe we’re people like you.” Her chuckle was smooth, like a fine glass of whiskey and just as addicting.

“If that’s the case, then come and help me.” She made it sound like a demand, but her voice was sweet and willing to accept a no if need be.

But Dutch was always one for an interesting character.

He made his way over to her, and she threw him the end of the rope. “Throw that over a branch and pull him up so he’s dangling, yes?”

He did as he was told; a smirk on his face as he did so, “So, what did they do to ya, Darlin’?”

“They looked at me wrong.” She grunted as she dragged another man over to where he was. “They also raped a poor woman behind the bar in Armadillo, and even though I murder for a living I still have fucking morals.” Her voice was deadpan, but her eyes sparked something of fierceness and danger.

And Dutch fucking _loved_ it.

She strung the second man up by his neck; his head aligned with the upside down man’s crotch and vice versa.

Then, she did something that was almost unthinkable… it was fucking brilliant.

She pulled the two dead men’s dicks and placed them in each other’s mouths, before leaving a note on the tree they hung from.

“Hopefully, _your_ boy’s have better manners.”

“Colm won’t be too happy to see this.”

“Honestly, Colm can suck my fucking cock.” She patted her mare’s neck, checked the girth once – than twice, before hopping onto her. Hosea looked shocked at her response, but he wasn’t going to tell someone this dangerous off like that.

“Where can we find you?” Dutch’s question was sudden, and full of excitement. He was enthralled by her actions in front of him, and God and the Devil himself knew it. “An enemy of Colm O’Driscoll is a friend of mine.”

She settled in her seat, and her mare shook her head up and down with excitement to just ride. “You don’t find me. I find you.” She removed her scarf then, her icy blues bored into his gorgeous browns. “I’ll see you around, Dutch Van Der Linde.”

She rode off into the darkness; melding into the night.

.-.-.

Dutch never _shut up_ about that woman.

The one who killed Colm O’Driscoll’s men like they were lambs to the slaughter.

It was _gorgeous_.

And he just couldn’t get her out of his head until he was able to sit down with her and talk.

“She would be a wonderful asset to our gang. Imagine it, Hosea.”

“We don’t even know where she went after that night; which I remind you, was two weeks ago.”

Arthur groaned, lighting a cigarette in hopes to sooth his raging headache. Two weeks straight, Dutch wouldn’t shut up about the woman with the pale blonde hair and the striking blue eyes. Two weeks straight, the whole gang had to relive the events that happened and they begrudgingly listened because he was living this dream, and that dream had her in it.

“Maybe she’s in Armadillo.” He lit a cigar, puffing out large plumes of smoke from his mouth as he did so. “She did say she was at the bar when she killed them O’Driscoll boys.”

‘Dutch –,” Hosea tried his best for him to see reason, but Dutch was already on the move, and he was already on the back of The Count and riding south towards the dinky town of Armadillo.

Hosea’s exasperated sigh caused Arthur to look up at his pinched face. He was already up from his chair with a groan, waving at Hosea.

“I’ll make sure he don’t get over his head.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Hosea sat down where Arthur was just sitting, “You know how he gets when he gets fascinated with something shiny.” Arthur chuckled, flicking his finished cigarette into the hot, desert sand.

“Don’t I know it.”

The ride to the run down bar was a short one.

Armadillo was full of strange people; drunkards who most likely worked in the morning and whores who can’t afford to go anywhere else.

The wooden planks creaked under his weighted steps and the saloon doors squealed unpleasantly as he pushed through before he scanned the area.

He could tell the place was full of regulars by the way the residents talked with the bartender and how the bartender knew exactly what the customers wanted before they knew they even wanted it. The people that leaned against the uncleaned bar were already sloshed and it was only half past noon, and he could see Dutch sitting at a table in the far corner with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“You look disappointed, Dutch.”

“You should have seen the scene that she created.” Dutch swirled his drink slowly before throwing it back and letting the pleasant burn turn into a warming sensation in his belly. “It was meticulous and conscientious. It had a point, and she executed it perfectly.”

“This seems like borderline obsession, Dutch.” He sat down across Dutch, who was rubbing his face with both hands and looking as if he’s going crazy. “I don’t think this woman is going to show her face again. At least, not around here. Especially since she stirred up so much damn trouble.”

Dutch’s sigh was long, and it was that kind of sigh that showed that he _knew_ Arthur was right.

He would never admit that, though.

Instead, he ordered another whiskey in hopes to drown out his hopes and dreams of having this woman part of his large gang of murderers and misfits.

“She was hell incarnate.” Arthur simply nodded at the mumble that left Dutch’s lips, before ordering himself a whiskey just for the hell of it.

It was a quiet afternoon, and Dutch started to lose hope that she would show up. His sighs weren’t as frequent and he ended up eating something while they sat there with the sun pouring in from the dirty windows.

Then it happened.

Dutch’s hopes and dreams flooded back into his mind as he put down his bowl of stew to slap Arthur’s arm and point at the person walking in.

“That’s her right there.” Arthur shifted himself in his chair; arm thrown over the back and his feet no longer tapping endlessly with impatient vigor.

Dutch wasn’t wrong about her beauty.

Her hair was short, barely hitting her shoulders and a lot more blonde than he ever imagined. Her body was lean and strong, and her jeans were tighter than _hell_.

Long, muscular legs. Broad shoulders. Subtle Curves.

She didn’t leave any room for imagination as she threw her long, wool trench coat onto the coat rack by the door then her short leather coat right over it.

He saw the heat she was packing at that point.

A shoulder holster that held her pistol, a hip holster that held her revolver, and an Antler Knife that was held close to her lower back; closest to where her belt laid on her jeans.

Her boots sounded light as she walked her way towards the bar with a cigarette tucked behind her ear.

She ordered a whiskey, then asked for a light, then asked for a newspaper before making her way to the window seat near the front of the bar.

Dutch moved before Arthur could even react, and how could he when Dutch was already halfway across the room before Arthur could stand up from his chair.

“Mr. Van Der Linde.” She mumbled with the cigarette between her lips, but not looking up from her newspaper. “Have a seat, I always prefer some company.”

Dutch seemed excited, or as excited as a big ol’ outlaw could be without showing something that would be considered weak.

“Who’s the guy that’s worrying like a mother hen?” she points at him, blowing smoke from her nose. Her cigarette placed between her index and middle finger and her glass was held with her remaining fingers. “He looks like he’s in a mild panic.”

She didn’t bother to look up from her paper as Arthur made his way to the table where Dutch now found himself. It was weird seeing him get like this; it wasn’t like him to just fawn over someone he barely knew like a small child.

She looked up finally, her blue eyes looking bored as she looked up at Arthur.

He stopped in his tracks, her eyes as striking as Dutch had described them, but she didn’t even bother to feel entertained by how he looked.

Why did he feel so self-conscious under her gaze?

“This is –,”

“Arthur Morgan.” She didn’t look too surprised by him and moved her eyes back to her paper, “You two have a large bounty on your heads, you know?”

Arthur’s shoulder tensed up, and placed his hand on his revolver out of instinct.

“Oh, lighten up, cowboy. I wasn’t insinuating anything bad.” She finished up her drink, then finished off her cigarette. “It’s just that your faces are basically plastered everywhere, it’s hard _not_ to know who you are.”

“You have no intention of turnin’ us in?” she scoffed then laughed.

“If I did, I’d make a game out of it.” She folded her newspaper, throwing it onto the table. The headlines were bold and big and it was no doubt that she was reading about them.

It had Dutch’s name smeared on the front of it.

“But how boring would the game you play be. All you would do is shoot me, then move on.” She grimaced, and lit another cigarette.

“You are quiet the interesting woman, you know.” Dutch started, but this hellfire of a girl barked out a laugh.

“Interesting now becomes boring later.” Inhale. “Try again, Mr. Van Der Linde.” Exhale.

Repeat.

Dutch was at a loss for words.

For the first time in his silver tongued life, he couldn’t figure out what to say to this woman.

“What’s my name, Mr. Van Der Linde?” it was more of a demand then a question, and it had Dutch on the edge of his seat. “I’m surprised you haven’t even seen _my_ bounty posters.” She scoffed, flicking her cigarette away and prepared to pull out another.

“Olsen.” Her eyes flicked over his face, then over Arthur’s. They were both wracking their brains for any clue to the answer, and maybe they would get it.

They weren’t smart enough, let alone quick enough.

Some O’Driscoll boys were, though.

“There she is, that bitch.” She perked up at the profane word that she was just called, and gave a small smirk.

“Oh, look who it is.” She placed her cigarette behind her ear, and Arthur noticed the piercings that seemed to decorate them. “Are we back for more fun? I know, I know. Two weeks is a long time, but I’m sure you managed just fine.”

“You killed our _brother_ , you dumb cunt.”

“And I’ll kill the rest of you if you don’t watch that tongue of yours, _boy_.” Her voice turned to venom, and that snarl she had just made it worse.

Or was it sexier that way.

Arthur didn’t know who drew first, but he knew who fell first.

The two O’Driscoll’s fell harshly, as both men and women fled from the bar.

She was slow about getting her things about her; holstering her gun with a slow hum before throwing on her coats.

She placed a hundred dollars on the bar where the owner cowered, “For the trouble.”

Dutch followed her out the back like a puppy, wide eyes and amazed that such a woman would be such a fast shot.

“Join us.”

“Oh, I’m not interested in joining your merry band of misfits.” She whistles, her mare trotting happily towards her.

“But, Ms. Olsen. I found out where you were.” She let out a sharp laugh, pulling herself up into her saddle in one smooth motion.

“Dutch, I found _you_. Not the other way around.” She turns her horse, who seemed eager and ready to gallop and flee from this scene. “Let’s play a game, Dutch Van Der Linde.”

“What would that entail, Ms. Olsen?” Arthur knew Dutch was being toyed with, with how enthralled and excited he was to find a new challenge within his grasp.

“If you can find me; truly find me and call me by my name.” her smile was devilish and enticing, and it was then that Arthur knew they were playing with fire. “I will join your little group.”

Before either of them could get another word in, she was riding off into the dust.

.-.-.

If Dutch wasn’t obsessed before, he surly was now.

He was gone for hours at a time, playing this little game of cat and mouse and leaving Hosea and Arthur to run the gang while he plays this little game.

It’s not like anyone can blame him though. That man needed a different kind of stimulation to keep him going through the day.

And this Olsen woman seemed to give it to him with her sharp tongue and quick mind and even quicker trigger fingers.

Hours turn to days, days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months.

On his search for this enticing woman, he brings in Micah. The slimy bastard with a mouth that flaps in the wind. Arthur can barely stand him, and he doesn’t understand where Dutch thinks this man will fit in with the rest of them.

But Micah – despite his terrible attitude and superiority complex – saved Dutch, so Arthur has to give him that.

It nearing the end of the 1898. Christmas was only celebrated because they had Jack, and the only thing that was passed around between the adults were liquor bottles and slurred folk songs.

By January, Dutch was nearly giving up finding this woman. He had spent so much of his time trying to find her, analyzing every little thing he came across as a message from her, that he noticed that he had neglected his gang; his _family_.

But if there’s one thing about this Ms. Olsen that Arthur knows, it’s that she knows exactly how to pull Dutch back into her games the moment she notices he’s no longer interested.

They moved northeast – towards Blackwater – hoping for slightly warmer weather and settled just off the shore of the Upper Montana River very close to Flat Iron Lake.

It was then, and only then, that she showed her face once more.

They had sent Micah and Charles out ahead to scout the new camp, just to make sure there wouldn’t be any trouble.

But O’Driscoll’s were the trouble, and she was their saving grace, climbing her way up from the pits of hell to put a bullet in each of their heads and two in each of their chests.

It was one hell of a sight to pull up to, her towering over dead O’Driscoll’s once more with Micah and Charles just far enough to either marvel at her abilities or grumble about how she took the fun out of killing those _“dirty fuckin’ O’Driscoll’s”_.

She turned to Dutch, a small smirk on her lips and her Mauser holstered at her side. “It looks like you found me, Dutch Van Der Linde.” She whistles and chirps for her mare, who whines and softly canters over to her side. Her woolen trench coat is thrown over the seat of her saddle and her hat (though it’s barely worn, it’s full of bullet holes and scuff marks) is settled on the horn.

“Ms. Olsen.”

“What’s my name, Dutch?” she called out, hands on her hips and that devilish smirk on her lips once more. “Say it, and you will have me in this merry band of fuckin’ misfits.”

Dutch pulls himself from The Count, rummaging through the saddle bags and pulling out a delicately folded piece of paper.

He pressed out the creases and wrinkles before showing it to her. It was her bounty poster, with four large digits written below her bolded name.

_Eight thousand dollars._

“Blair Olsen.” He calls out to her, and all she can do is smile. “Welcome to our _merry bunch of misfits_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't lie though, I'm kinda drunk so any errors you see I will eventually fix.
> 
> Also, I don't know if I should do a pairing or not so here's a poll that I hope truly works.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Vote Here!~~


	2. Can't Raise Hell With A Saint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOnestly, I've had a lot of muse for this story because I write badass character's a lot better than any other kind of character.  
> I'm glad that everyone is voting, but sweet jesus no one likes Dutch. Out of 11 people, only 2 voted for Dutch. Got 5 four Arthur and I got 4 for Neither of them.  
> I won't really decide about romance shit until maybe later, like the third or fourth chapter because of dynamics and shit, but I'm really happy that so many people voted!

Even though Blair was now a part of the Van Der Linde gang, she was barely ever around.

No one could complain though; she wasn’t very liked within the group.

The only thing she was good about was bringing in heaps of money, a few deer carcasses, and decent alcohol only to leave once more.

Dutch would try to keep her in camp for a night, have everyone get to know her but once everyone was drunk on the alcohol she brought in (and that whiskey and gin and vodka was _not_ cheap) she would slip into the night and be gone by the morning.

But as winter chill thawed and turned into a spring warmth, the feelings of the camp towards Blair seemed to be left behind with the cold.

Blair would bring in heaps of cash, leaving hundreds to thousands of dollars in the donation box. Ms. Grimshaw seemed to notice as she passed her a hot cup of coffee and a tense smile, but there were no words passed between them. Just mutual understanding.

Sean seemed happy that she would bring in some finely aged scotch, specifically for him, though she would simply walk off from him once he started to talk about _his da_. She couldn’t figure out how _scotch_ lead to memories of his father, but she wasn’t going to argue because that meant she would _have to listen to him talk about his fucking da_.

“Miss Blair!” Dutch stepped down from his tent, hands thrown out to the side with a warm welcome. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m getting antsy, I won’t lie.” She grumbles, lighting a cigarette out of frustration. Smoke blown out from her nose as her eyes stared at the dried mud that seemed to stick to her boots. “I’m usually out of the camp by the morning, but it’s the middle of the day and I’m still here.” Dutch chuckled as she tapped her foot before kicking up dust.

“Did you have plans for today?” she hummed as she inhaled another puff.

“I did actually. This Belgian family just moved here and they have this dog that they can’t handle.”

“You think a dog in camp is a good idea?”

“I don’t run this place, you do. You tell me that.” She’s already walking away from Dutch before he could get another word in. Dutch could only smirk and shake his head, but Molly’s scoff from behind him ruined his slightly good mood.

“Molly, darlin’, please.”

.-.-.

_“I’M GOING TO RELEASE THE DOG! I’M GOING TO RELEASE HER! FREEZE!” the man in front of her, decked out in a thick bite suit, walked towards her with a gun prop as the Fawn Sable Malinois she held back barked and lunged forward._

_“FASS! FASS! FASS!” Blair released the leather leash and watched as Malinois ran right at the man and latched onto the man’s arm. “GOOD GIRL! FASS!” the man rattled and slapped a stick on the thigh that wasn’t being attacked or used._

_“AUS!” Blair’s voice burned at her yells, but her dog commanded in an instant, “HIER!”_

_In an instant, she was right under Blair, between her legs and looking up with a wagging tail and a tongue hanging from her mouth._

_“She’s doing well, good job.” Blair looked over at her commanding officer, a small smile on her face._

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_“You think she’s ready for your next deployment?” Blair motioned her Malinois to heel and stand next to her instead of under her. She couldn’t help but pat her head and scratch her ear as she thought about this dog walking through the deserts of Afghanistan._

_“I have no doubts, sir.”_

_“Good.”_

.-.-.

Blair rode up towards the house, the nails most likely freshly pounded into the wooden planks and the furniture that was placed outside still yet to gather dirt and dust.

“ _Herr Wagner!_ ” she called out, her terrible German making her scrunch her nose. “ _I’m here for the dog._ ”

A woman came out from the house, a wary look on her face before she smiled brightly at Blair. She called for her husband in a sweet voice.

“ _Ah! Ms. Olsen! Please come in, come in! I’ll bring you some coffee!_ ”

“ _Not necessary, ma’am. I just want the dog._ ” Blair waved her hand at the woman, and shoved her hands into her trench coat pockets. “ _I have the money, but I want to see this dog._ ”

The wife was now wary again, wringing her fingers before calling for her husband once more.

“ _Are you sure you want this dog? He’s young, and he was abused by the man we bought him from._ ”

“ _I used to work with them, there isn’t a dog I haven’t worked with that didn’t like me._ ”

They both walked out towards the back, the wife telling her two small children to stay in the living room as she guided her.

Blair heard the dog’s growls and yelps before she saw him, and she knew this dog was going to be a handful but it wouldn’t be the first. She trained seven dogs to do several different tasks, this young pup won’t be any different.

She walked through the door, and found herself in shock at the sight of this dog.

He was tied to a tree with a leather belt wrapped his muzzle. The man was agitating him by the way he kept going back and forth, almost as if he was trying to bait him but this poor dog could barely open his mouth.

“ _What in the fuck are you doing?_ ” Blair merely snarled at the man, pushing him away as she walked over to this dog – This gorgeous silver Belgian Malinois with a black mask and dark eyes that didn’t radiate aggression but fear – and stood tall as she radiated a sense of dominance to this pup.

He was barely two years old, with how small he seemed and how the colorings on his back seemed to look as if they were shifting from back to a blue gray.

“ _Ma’am, be careful! He’s extremely aggressive! He needs to be put down!_ ”

Blair stood over this Malinois, staring down at it with power and grace.

She removed the belt from his mouth, and he snapped at her.

She snapped back, grabbing him by the scruff and practically mounting him to bite his ear. He whined, loud and shrill before he settled and showed his belly as she moved.

“ _How much?_ ” she asked, wanting to get this dog out of this home. _God_ , she misses her time so much. They never treated these dogs this terribly.

“ _You still want him?_ ”

“ _He needs work, but yes. I still want him. How much?_ ”

“ _Two hundred?_ ”

“ _Is that a question, or is that what you want?_ ” she pulls a cigarette from her ear and lights it. “ _Is that your final answer?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ” She chuckles, and pulls out the cash.

“ _Sold, to the woman clad in black_.” She mumbles as she hands him the money before taking the dog.

.-.-.

_She couldn’t help but cry and scream as her brothers in arms dragged her from her the battle zone, her pretty girl following so close to her and whining at how her trainer cried out in pain._

_“We need backup!” she heard Congo yell into his ear piece, but her eyes just couldn’t be torn away from the way the bone in her leg protruded from her digi-cammies. “We got a man down!” she slapped his leg and he chuckled, even in the midst of gunfire and rage._

_“Alright, Longshot. I’m gonna pick you up and take you to the Humvee. You got your pistol.” She looked up at him, slightly shell-shocked and nervous._

_“I’m locked and loaded, Congo.” He put her in a Fireman’s carry, and even though the pain was unbearable, she watched his six and commanded her pretty fur missile during moments of danger._

_Those were the good old days, weren’t they? Where the only thing better than an orgasm was the thrill of a gunfight._

.-.-.

She really didn’t know why she bought this dog, maybe it was the memories that poured into her mind during the soft, sober moments alone or maybe it was the way the poor thing whined and yelped even with that belt tightly wrapped over its muzzle.

Blair walked into Blackwater – her horse’s reins in one hand and the dog’s (shitty) rope leash in the other – and hoped that the general store would have some leather items for a dog like this.

With her mare hitched out front, she pulled the dog through the door and looked around for a decent set.

“That’s a mighty fine dog.” The shopkeeper walked around the corner of his counter, and the Malinois growled at him.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Blair deadpanned as he moved right back to behind the counter. “I need some leather items. Leash, collar and a decent dog toy.” He pointed meekly, eyeing the dog as the dog eyed him.

“In the corner, by the children stuff.”

All they had was white or black when it came to leather, and for some odd reason, she grew self-conscience with the amount of black that was within her reach.

She grabbed the white leather, then a leather ball that she knew would never last with how these kinds of dog chew.

“What’s his name?” the clerk was hesitant to ask, with how Blair seemed to scowl and glare at everything she looked at.

She hummed at him, pulling out cash to pay.

“Congo.”

.-.-.

Dutch was _not_ happy to see her wander back into camp with a dog as the sun set.

“What is that scraggly mutt doing here?” his gait was aggressive as he walked towards her, and Congo noticed it all too well. Blair jerked his leash lightly, reprimanding him in firm German words.

“My new addition.” She stated bluntly, as she pushed past him with the dog pressed closely to her leg. “And he ain’t a mutt, at least not anymore of a mutt than your boys.”

There she was, with that quick tongue.

“We have a child here, and so you bring in this aggressive _dog_.”

“Last time I checked, you brought in Micah. So I think we’re even.” There was a chuckle from the poker table, and Dutch could only throw a glare at Hosea.

“ _You_ are in _my_ camp.” He snarled, stepping close to her.

“And _I_ can _leave_.” She snapped back, bumping her chest with his. “Honestly, Dutch. Don’t forget that you _needed_ a little more than subtle hints to find my ass.”

All Dutch could do was groan – even though he really wanted to tell her that it was a lie, that he found her fair and square, but that would have been a lie and Hosea would have stated so – and move away from her.

She won that fight.

“Keep that thing away from Jack, or Abigail will have your head.”

Thus, the training began.

.-.-.

It took three months of vigorous training and real life situations for Congo’s temperament and aggression to mellow out. He was finally able to walk around without a leash, his body constantly pinned next to Blair’s calves and always looking up at her hands or face for a command that could be given at any given time.

They had a few things to train, like her horse being used to having this dog on her rump, but poor Stella wasn’t used to having anything other than her rucksack on her back.

She sat around the poker table, leaning deep into the rickety chair with a cigarette hanging loosely between her lips and her cards hidden under the table as she played against Hosea, Javier and Micah.

They were losing _terribly_ , and they were gonna lose even _more_.

“Straight flush.” She stated bluntly, placing her five cards down in the middle before smirking at Hosea. “I win.”

“Damn, _Cariño_. Don’t gotta be so hard on us.” She waves her hands at him, and pulls in the money.

“If I buy you a drink, will that make up for it?” she flirts, biting her lips softly while bagging her newly earned money.

“Depends on what you’re getting?”

“Only they good shit.” She snorts, and slouches back down into her chair with a breathy laugh.

“Micah! Blair! Come here!” she watches as Micah runs over to Dutch with puppy like eyes, while she commands Congo to follow her over to him.

“The information you brought me checks out, Micah. We’re gonna rob the boat that’s coming in next week.” Blair tilted her head in confusion, but she was sure she could put the pieces together as they continued their talk.

Dutch spread a map over this table and pointed to the docks of Blackwater, taping his ringed fingers over it with a fiery gleam. “It will be in early in the morning, and it’ll be heavily guarded. The faster we get in, the faster we can get out.”

Blair butted in after that.

“Do you have anyone covering overhead?” she sat down on his cot, playing with Congo’s face and ears as she asked.

“What do you mean by ‘covering overhead’?” Micah’s sneer only made her snarl.

“So no one is on a rooftop, making sure that no one can sneak up on you and making sure that no one is getting in, let alone getting out.”

“Why would we need someone on a roof?”

“You are _robbing_ a _Federal_ boat full of fucking _cash_. You would be an idiot to _not_ have someone cover from the roof.” Micah groans in frustration, knowing full well she was right but he’s already knee deep in this quicksand, and he wasn’t ready to back down and ask for help.

“We can get Arthur to cover the rooves.” Dutch mumbles, scratching his mustache in thought. It would work out so much better if someone was across from the docks and watching for any incoming Law.

“He’s busy doing that scam with Hosea.” Micah grumbles, leaning over to look at Dutch in the eyes. “We don’t need some lazy sniper. We will be _fine_ just going in and getting the money before anyone notices.”

“There is well over _five hundred thousand_ dollars on that boat, Dutch. You willing to risk all that money for the sake of going in guns blazing?”

Dutch contemplates.

Then looks over at Blair.

“How good are you with a sniper rifle?” her laugh was hollow, and her eyes showed a sadness that he wasn’t used to seeing on her.

“My brothers in arms didn’t call me Longshot for no reason.”

.-.-.

_“Congo! Longshot!” she looked over at Sticks, and she was almost glad to his ugly fucking mug._

_“Sweet Jesus, Sticks. You’re the prettiest sight I’ve seen today.” Blair muttered as Congo carefully placed her in the back of the Humvee. Her Malinois jumped up and placed herself between her legs._

_“You’re a sorry fucking sight, ain’t ya?”_

_“That I am.”_

_Gunshots rang through the air, and both Sticks and Congo shot out to where they saw the flashes._

_“We need to move. Where’s Chaos?”_

_“He’s driving, and the others are already back over. We were waiting for you two.”_

_The Humvee spun out and moved harshly against the dirt and rubble and Congo go into the turret to shoot out the rundown trucks that seemed to chase them out from the city._

_“We need air backup, now!” Sticks screamed into his walkie-talkie, “Where’s the fucking Heli!” static came in before a muffled voice was heard._

_“300 Klicks.” Sticks cursed and threw his walkie._

_Bullets rained harshly into the back of the Humvee before a large boom and a blinding white ran threw her._

_She woke up upside down, her leg feeling like pure fire and her dog dead; impaled by a large shard of metal through her chest. Her death was quick, no doubt, but Blair’s sobs couldn’t be held back as she watched her pretty girl bleed and lay limply a few inches away from her._

_“Sticks?” she coughed, and looked over. He groaned._

_“I’m ‘ere…” he shuffled around from the front seat._

_“Congo?” she called for him next, looking around for him in a frenzied panic._

_But all she found were his legs._

_He wasn’t able to get out from the hole in the Humvee, and he was crushed from the behemoth weight of the military convoy._

_She heard yells in a foreign language, and she checked her Glock for how many bullets she had left._

_Ten. Only ten._

_“15 Klicks.” The walkie-talkie static brought her out of her hazy. There was so much blood, and even though she was trained to keep her cool during situations like this and made to experience living hells like this over and over and over again, she could barely hold her sobs let alone the food that she had that morning._

_The only thing she remember was kicking open the back door, and shooting down five men with a terrifying accuracy._

.-.-.

She was covered in a thin sheen of sweat as she slowly let her eyes flutter open. Congo -  _Brandon -_ the man she worked with. The man she rose up in the ranks with. The man she fell in love with.

He wasn’t even in existence yet, but _God_ she missed his touch and his sarcastic tune and his sweet jokes.

She looked over at the _new_ Congo, a gorgeous Malinois with his silver fur and his black mask, and wondered if naming him that was a good idea. Tears sprung from her eyes as she slowly shifted up and out of bed.

She needed a fucking cigarette.

She slowly walked over to the lake, the dog following behind her with the thrill of work.

He dropped the leather ball in front of her as she sat down; leaning against a large tree. Blair can only laugh softly, before throwing it off, away from the water and watching the dog turn into a blur of gray.

She pulled a note from her leather coat – a note with frayed edges and mixed feelings because it’s almost like this _man_ didn’t know how time travel worked – and sighed as she read the cursive words over and over and over.

_Dear, SSgt Blair Olsen_

_Meeting you that night, I knew you would be someone who could fix history with spitfire and holy water. That is why you’re here._

_There are people who need your help, people I have watched over and over die a ruthless and unnecessary death and I am willing to run a few experiments as well as risk a few rules to see if I can change history and change their fates._

_These people are well known, and you will know who they are once you see them._

_Save him, and you save them all._

_Good luck and best regards,_

_Francis Sinclair_

She sighed, folding it up once more and placing it back in its designated pocket.

“Save him, and I save them all…”

She finished off her cigarette, and threw the butt into the ground.

“Who the hell am I saving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also just so it's easier for the whole voting thing here's a basic rundown of what would happen if you chose the options in the poll.
> 
> Arthur: Enemies to Friends to Lovers  
> Dutch: Mostly Friends with Benefits with feelings coming very late in the game.  
> Neither: Either I would have them pining after her and she would do nothing, or it's all the power of friendship
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Vote Here!~~


	3. Pleasing A Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly really enjoy writing this even if it seems just all over the place.  
> And I'm just gonna say that all of that is planned   
> And we're all gonna be mango farmers.

_Spring of 1899, Blackwater_

.-.-.

Two days until the robbery of that freight boat that comes in with loads of cash for the new bank in Blackwater. Blair got stuck buying a new gun; a silly looking rolling block rifle that looked just as rickety as a cheap ass Assault Rifle. She would still use it – she would have too – but she would only use it with a few cosmetic upgrades.

Only a few, really. Improved rifling, a large scope, fully costumed metal inlays and engraving with all the metals going from basic steel to a blackened steel. She changed the color of the stock to a light myrtle wood, thinking the contrast would help with her terrible taste in colored fashion.

Why does everything she own have to be black.

Congo followed her out of the gunsmith, and she was slightly happy with how the gun that was slung over her shoulders looked aesthetically but only worried with how it was going to work out physically.

She made her way over to the general store, flicking through the sparse amount of clothes they offered in her size. The springtime sun was beating down on her, and she was in need of something light in color and in weight.

If only she was back in her era; wearing shorts that showed off her legs.

She groaned, finding nothing in her size or style.

“It’s impossible, boy.” She looked down at Congo, who sat next to her with his tongue hanging up the side of his mouth and his eyes trained on her. “Can’t find anything that would fit.”

“I might…” the store clerk cleared his throat, catching her attention. “I might have some pants in the back, if that’s what you’re looking for?”

“As long as they fit my hips, I can alter them in the legs.” She leaned over the counter, eyeing him softly. “Any kinda denim will do.”

She always hated shopping, but she never had this much trouble back then (was that how it was said? Wouldn’t it be back further? She didn’t know, and really she didn’t care.). Women had the ability to wear jeans, but here – in this blasted time where women were perceived as fragile beings who weren’t capable of work – pants were meant for men and _only_ men and a women who wore pants was either someone to be fears or laughed at.

She was thankful to be someone who was categorized in the first option.

He brought out several pairs of work jeans, which were all thick and stiff and in need to be worked in.

She bought them all, as well as a few women’s button ups, a decent sewing kit and a new hat (only because she can’t seem to _not_ get shot at in the head).

She left the town with a heavy sack, as well as more money than when she came in.

.-.-.

_She laid in the gurney, loopy and all, with a small giggle on her lips._

_Her leg was numbed up; reset and casted as she melted into the extremely thin mattress covered in a thin sheet._

_Sticks – Adam – sat next to her; reading his tablet and writing his report on nothing but a manila folder and his knee._

_He got out with nothing but a few scrapes and bruises._

_She got out with a broken tibia and fibula, three broken ribs and a grade two concussion._

_Blair was lucky to get out with only those injuries._

_They did run over and IED._

_“I’m cold.” Sticks looks up from his place and sighs._

_“You have six blankets on you already.” She pouts at him like a child, the anesthesia still running through her system._

_“I’m cold.” He groans, and pushes himself up from his knees._

_“Fine, I’ll get you another blanket.”_

.-.-.

She can never sleep, her nightmares plaguing her every time she closed her eyes to find some solace in the deep comfort of slumber. Brandon’s eyes also seem to grace hers with every fluttering blink and lingering yawn that she makes herself too much coffee to keep her up for the sake of her sanity.

But it only works so much.

She agreed to take first watch of the night, saying she wasn’t tired and that she wouldn’t mind the time alone. Javier picked at the strings of his guitar, and all she could do was softly hum along with the tune he created out of thin air.

As the night went on, she was found alone by the fire, her fingers working steadily as she stitches and hems new jeans to fit around her calves and thighs and hips.

It was easy, really. She was built for a patience that came along with sewing and really – though she would never admit it – she found it soothing with every stitch and loop she made within the rough denim.

Blair thought she was alone, with how the coyotes seemed to yip and howl within the light, airy night and how the owls cooed their eternal wisdom.

But there was a shuffling off to the right of her, and though she side eyed the sound to see who it might have been, she never expected it to be a dirty blond outlaw who stumbled over with sleep still laced within his limbs.

She poured him a cup of coffee.

“It’s two A.M., Mr. Morgan.” She placed it in his hands as he – ungracefully _and_ majestically – placed himself adjacent of her. “You should be asleep.”

“So shou’ you.” He sounded exhausted, and without the coffee, he would fall right back to sleep leaning uncomfortably against the chopped up log.

“I’m on guard duty.”

“Does guard duty mean sewin’ up pants.” She smirked.

“Last time I checked, I have a quick hand, a quick tongue and a quick dog. I think everything would be fine if someone got the bright idea to come into this camp with the idea of killing someone.” She takes the small scissors and cuts away the excess fabric.

“I guess yer right…” his sips were genteel and slow, and he seemed to like how she made coffee in the percolator. “Damn, tha’s good.”

“It’s twice as much coffee grounds than normal. You get a decent flavor from whatever cheap shit they bring in from over the border.”

A silence fell over them, the fire crackling high and strong and the wildlife around them still living as if the sun was out and shining bright.

It’s comfortable, the silence between them, but Blair can’t help but feel as if he’s hoping for something to be admitted. He hopes that she would admit to being a lying, conniving bitch who came into this gang that he’s only ever known, loved and protected only to tear it down and ruin their lives.

If only he knew the kind of lives she ruined before being thrown in such a timeline.

“You’re staring, Arthur.” She’s stern with her voice, but quiet enough to keep from waking everyone around them. “Didn’t Dutch teach you it’s not polite to stare.” She sneers at this point, hoping he would back off but a lone wolf can’t just go and challenge an alpha without having his fangs bared and the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.

“I’m only tryin’ to figure you out.” He snaps back, his voice a harsh whisper over the crackle and snapping of the fire. “You show up out of nowhere, playing games with Dutch, and you expect me to show you some goddamn respect?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve _earned_ it at this point. I’ve been feeding the people of this camp as well as funding it enough to keep that slimy little loan shark off the fucking streets.” She doesn’t bother looking up at Arthur, but she knows he’s scoffing and glaring at her.

“Just, remember yer place in this gang.” He groans as he pushes himself up, dumping his left over coffee into the fire, listening to the sizzle.

“And you remember yours, Arthur Morgan.” Her icy blues bored into his soul, and he suddenly feels like covering up. “You never knew what kind of unfortunate thing might happen.”

All he can do is scowl, grunt out some incoherent response and wonder back to his cot where his thoughts could run wild without those icy blues judging every shift and twitch his body makes.

.-.-.

_She remembers carrying his casket down the row with grass softly crunching under her neatly polished shoes. Her blues were crisp and clean and entirely pressed and ready specifically for this service._

_Brandon “Congo” Schwartz._

_A man of honor._

_A man of hope._

_A man who was not six feet in the ground because of some shitty thing that could have been prevented._

_She does her best not to cry as she folds the flag over his coffin with seven other officers, before handing it over to his mother._

_He had no next of kin._

_None whatsoever._

_Though they both talked about it._

_They made empty promises within the cold solitude of their barrack rooms that could no longer be fulfilled because he was gone. His warmth and his love was gone._

_Her rock was gone, and now she had gone haywire within her own head._

_The only thing she could do now, was bury herself in work until she too, was put six feet in the ground._

.-.-.

Dazed and confused.

That’s all she felt as she downed her fifth cup of coffee.

Her focus was all over the place, and maybe it was time to ditch the caffeine for something a hell of a lot stronger.

Whiskey.

“Miss Blair, are you even listening?” she sips the rest of her cup of coffee, which was cold at this point and groans.

“Not really, no.” she hisses, sloppily getting up to pour another cup.

“You _need_ to listen to my plan, Miss Blair.” She scoffs.

“I’m staying on a roof, what else is there to listen to?” she shot back, ignoring how everyone seemed to stare at her as she walked over with her sixth cup of coffee. “I know how things like this go, and I know for a fact that you’re going to have both Javier and Charles pose as guards right here.” She points down on the map, slurping her warm drink.

Micah groaned at it, and she could do nothing but smile.

“Then you’re gonna have Lenny, Micah and John come up and start the fucking fire fight. You’re gonna expect the cops to come up on you all from here and here.” She places a few coins down on the paper, twisting her face in annoyance.

“So you were listening.”

“I’m _tired_ , not a fucking _idiot._ ” She places her cup down, scanning over the small map. “I’m gonna be right across the way, right here. I’ll be ready to shoot any law or anyone who tries to stop you from getting that money.”

“And the escape?” She looks at Micah, and he seemed to be actually listening instead of antagonizing her like usual.

He still sounded as condescending as ever, though.

“At that point, I’m off the roof. Bill and I will have the carriages set and ready to ride off with the money.” She leans a thigh on the table, listening to it creak and nearly falling over as it shifted under her weight. Her coffee spills, and she sighs.

“That sounds like a plan.” Dutch has his chest puffed out, his arms crossed and a smile on his lips between a cigar. “The boat will be in by noon, so we will ride out and hour before.”

Dutch merely puffed his cigar, rolled up the map and let everyone enjoy themselves for the night before being pressured to sleep.

.-.-.

_“You’re being put on medical leave until further notice.”_

_Blair sat up in her gurney as best she could, but the pain she had in her body kept her from moving too much._

_“Will this affect my promotion?” her commanding officer came to sit next to her, removing his hat and sighing._

_“I won’t know until we fly you back to the states. There’s a good chance that once you get brought back from medical leave, you’re on desk duty.” She groans softly, hoping he wouldn’t hear her._

_He did._

_“I know, it’s not ideal. But we already lost one marine, we can’t lose another because she’s too stubborn to take a no.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“You get some rest, I’ll let you know if anything changes.”_

_And then she was left alone, once more, with nothing but her thoughts and a hatred for fucking gurneys._

.-.-.

She can never sleep, and how could she when her nightmares keep her feeling so cold at night.

Even with a damn dog at her side, she couldn’t help but shiver at how cold the hard dirt was and how the solitude of her tent kept her from trying to sleep and staying asleep.

Blair finds herself sitting by the river, listening to the soft flow run down into Flat Iron Lake without a care in the world.

She wishes sometimes that she could be as flexible and free as a river; never molding to ones wants and desires and never stopping or slowing for anyone who wants to admire and ravish her.

Her cigarette sat limply between her lips as she laid down under the darkening sky. She never remembered seeing this many stars in her time, with the amount of pollution that littered the sky from all the smog and smoke.

“Countin’ stars, I see.” She groans outwardly and she hopes that he heard her.

“You ever gonna leave me alone, Arthur Morgan.” She feels like a teenager again, trying to get away from her annoying brothers for only a moment of peace and quiet.

“Ya ain’t the only one who needs a smoke break.”

“That’s gonna be hard since I’ve been taking _your_ cigs.” She sits up, groaning at the pain that radiated in her lower back.

Soon enough, she’ll start complaining like Uncle complains about his _lumbago._

“’scuse me?” she laughs, her chuckles deep and as sultry as ever.

He shivers as she throws him a pack.

It’s the good shit.

“The hell you get these?” she hums, before letting smoke simply float from her mouth.

“If you know the right people, you can get the good stuff.”

“Ain’t this shit from Greece?” she hears him light up a cigarette, and all she can do is hum.

“Think of it as an even exchange for taking your last pack.” She calls for Congo, who seems to happily trot next to her with her leather ball in his mouth.

She pats his shoulder as she passes, a tired smile gracing her lips. “Good luck on that scam tomorrow.”

He didn’t really have a chance to respond as she saunters away from him.

Arthur can’t believe it, but he finds it hard to act like himself under those icy eyes of hers.

It honestly feels like when she’s looking at him, he’s in the depths winter once more with his body burning though there was no fire around to cause it.

He smokes a cigarette, and looks at the little white box.

“Where the hell did she get a pack of Karelia?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thanks to everyone who voted but Arthur won (which I found odd... I was for sure thinking I would have people want Dutch but legit no one likes him. I'm shook) and lord I can live for it even though i truly wanted to just like.   
> Make her this bad ass bitch who could kill with her looks and her gun.  
> Also I hope you guys like her, I made her on a whim.


	4. Changing History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter, and I wish I was good at writing because then I wouldn't forget about characters like Sean or my boi Lenny.

_May of 1899, Blackwater_

_Day of Heist_

.-.-.

She’s already broken too many rules by being here, even if her being here was _mostly_ involuntary.

But there were rules she _wished_ she could break.

Oh, how she would kill to see her family during this time. They had just emigrated from Norway, she thinks. Her mother used to talk about her family with her all the time; showing old timey photos and small little trinkets that were kept in peak condition after all this time.

But she was here to change the past, which was _the first rule_ of time travel.

Everyone knew that, but the man who sent her here – with the red hair and the weird birthmark on his face (but at least his eyes were striking and nice to look at) – didn’t seem to understand that actions like these have consequences.

Unless he knew of them and did it anyways.

Maybe it was actually all planned. Maybe her life was meant to be like this, riding down a dirt road on a horse instead of in a Humvee with a dog running next to her instead of in her lap listening to her thoughts and worries in German.

Maybe, just maybe, this was fates funny way of saying this was her life now and she needed to get used to it because it wasn’t going to change.

Her face scrunched in annoyance as she tried to think of what that paradox was called; her brother was always one for cliché sci-fi books and movies. He always talked about it.

She went the long way around Blackwater, per Dutch’s orders (though she argued heavily enough) and came up behind the freshly paved sidewalks and cleanly built buildings.

She was told that Charles marked which building was the one that had the best vantage point, and when she came up on said building, young boys were cleaning it off with an older man snapping and yelling at them as if they were the ones who did it.

Blair left her horse unhitched – just in case of some emergency that required her to leave her horse behind, with how impulsive these men were, it was possible – and passed by the store clerk with her rifle attached to her shoulder, her binoculars in her hand and Congo following closely to her left side.

Getting in was relatively easy, the boys who were cleaning the brick wall distracting the man just enough to getting in without having to kill anyone or threaten anyone either.

It was convenient, but just too convenient for her to settle her thoughts.

She settled on the roof, her cross body bag sitting over her chest as she pulled out a few pieces of cheese and a small bottle of liquor.

Something to ease her nerves.

It has been far too long (she still doesn’t know how to word things like this when this was considered her past, but their present) since she had shot anyone from this distance. Her hands shook a little too hard, as if they itched to pull the trigger over and over.

That trigger happy beast she held so deep and hidden was trying to come out, and she refused to give it the satisfaction.

Her hat was removed at this point, her cheese placed inside to keep it off the dirty ground and Congo laid behind her as if to keep an eye on the exit point for anyone who might try and sneak up on her.

She adjusted her scope, feeling her shoulders drop from the tension she held.

Blair had always felt at ease when she was on the other side of the gun, the stock bumped up against her shoulder just perfectly, and her hand listening to the clicking of the scope as she gets rid of the blurriness that comes with new scopes.

Her breathing moved from high up in her chest to the bottom of her belly, just so she can keep her shoulders steady and unmoving.

She heard everything happen before she saw everything happen, and soon enough Dutch and his men flooded onto the boat to retrieve what they greedily dreamed about for nights on end.

She placed her left hand against the bump stock and her shoulder as her right hand laid at neutral over the trigger. Her gun moved to find the law swarming like flies to a dead, bloating body.

She inhaled.

Aimed.

Exhale.

Squeeze.

The loud booming sound echoed across the dirty roads, as a man fell harshly to the ground with his brains spilling out from his eye socket.

Civilians screamed at this point, running like roaches exposed to light, and hoped that the cover they found would be enough to protect them.

Her adrenaline was running rampant at this point, and all she could was repeat her actions over and over till the law laid lifelessly in the dirt and on the docks as Dutch pushed past civilians – men, women and children that used the ferry as a way of travel – to get to the glorious beauty of gold and cash that awaited them in the lower part of the boat.

She felt like her job was done, and she pulled her eye away from the scope. Breaking off a piece of cheese, she looked at her work from a distance and all she could feel was a numbness she felt when she was at war.

Any feeling that was felt during a firefight was a feeling that would hinder you and end with you six feet in the ground.

She was about to leave; to pull away from her position on the roof and make her way to the carriage that Bill had just pulled up.

But plans always have a way of changing.

“DUTCH VAN DER LINDE!” she looked down at the man in a bowler hat, and snarled. “THIS IS AGENT MILTON WITH THE PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY!”

Who the hell were these fools?

She didn’t have too much of a chance to get back into a comfortable position; her barrel and scope aimed right at the man’s head just perfectly.

All she would have to do is squeeze the trigger.

Change the events of history and you change everything.

After that, the history books she read in high school would change, and she would be in uncharted territory.

“DUTCH VAN DER LINDE! SHOW YOURSELF!”

She inhaled, but held her breath.

Dutch came out slowly from below, a woman in his arms and a gun to her head.

A growl left her throat, just as a growl left her Malinois’s.

“Put the gun down, mister.” The man wasn’t close to her, and that would give her a chance to react.

“I ain’t no man, my friend.” Her voice was low, but she never took her trained eye from the man in the bowler hat.

“Put. The gun. Down.” His voice was threatening, but it wasn’t enough.

She Inhaled.

Aimed.

“Fass.” Exhale.

Her dog latched himself to the man’s arm as she pulled the trigger. The man’s yells echoed harshly through the air, and instead of hitting the man in the head, he only got hit in the shoulder.

Dutch threw the woman into the water; taking cover and soon enough, another firefight happened again.

She removed herself from the roof at this point, growling at the man who struggled and cried as her dog never let go. Blood dripped from his canines and his muzzle as she put a bullet in the man’s head.

By the time she got down to the ground level, the money was loaded within the carriage and a majority of the threat was either dead or they ran off after their numbers dwindled heavily against the threat.

She lit up a cigarette.

“Well, that went better than I thought.” She mumbled to John, offering up her cig. He refused.

“You’re one helluva shot, Miss Olsen.” She chuckles, whistling and chirps for her horse before ordering her dog to get into the carriage.

She finds herself looking over the bodies that littered the docks, and she starts to wonder if there was any remorse or regret in her body.

When she finds none, she merely scoffs and looks over at Bill, who was already sitting up with the reins in his hand and Lenny sitting right next to him. They both look worse for wear, but with this kind of take, she thinks that no one cares how they look right now.

“A little more practice, Mr. Marston, and you’ll be up with the big leagues.” She climbs into the cabin of carriage, Charles following suit.

“The hell are the big leagues?” he sounds confused, and all she can do is sigh.

“Nevermind, let’s just get home.”

The ride was filled with song, and frankly, it reminded her too much of her times overseas with the men she called her family.

She had spilt blood with these boys, so was it possible for her to call them family as well?

The songs were loud and sloppy, with Dutch lead them word for word and all she could do is sit there with her eyes closed and bob her head to the off tune sounds of the men’s voices.

Gunshots rang clear through the valley; though, cutting them off and jolting her awake from a nap she didn’t realize she was taking.

“PINKERTONS, DUTCH!” his growl was feral, and such a sound only made her snarl.

Her first instincts told her to take the windows out, so she did with a few hits of her rifle, and soon wind and dust started to flood her sense.

“What are you doing?” Charles voice was drowned out by the yells of men and the beat of the hooves as she scraped away the jagged glass from the opening with the barrel of her gun.

“Here, hold my shit.” She threw him her bag, and he seemed shocked with how she seemed to be willing to die over a cash.

When she stuck her head out, wind roared and bullets rang through the empty valley. It was then when she saw how many there were upon them.

She smiled; devilish and true.

If it was a war they wanted, it was a war they’ll get.

She yelled towards Bill and Lenny, “Keep this carriage steady! I’m climbing up top!”

“What!?” Bill couldn’t look up or back at this point, his focus glued on keeping the horses strait on the path.

She was never afraid of guns or bullets; she was broken down so much in boot camp only to be built back up to feel a sense of confidence and pride when someone shot at her.

The only difference here was she didn’t know if Kevlar was a thing that was invented yet or not.

She laid belly first on the top of the carriage – her feet just barely hitting the edge of the carriage and the back of the boy’s heads – and positioned her rifle just right.

At times like these, she didn’t feel it necessary to situate herself too much. No, all she wanted to do was keep the adrenaline running through her veins until it runs completely dry from her body and she’s left achy and satisfied.

Her first shot rang false, but her second rang true, nailing the man tailing a little too closely to Dutch through the eye and watching as he fell of his horse with a resounding thud that she knew she would hear in her nightmares and dreams.

Her third rang true as well, hitting a man in the chest and sending him flying into the horse right behind him and causing what would have been a ten car pile up – if there were cars involved at least. The man was trampled over hooves, but even though she knew that horses never tripped, this one did and it sent its rider flying out of the saddle.

A rider tried to jump his horse over it, but he was left eating dirt and broken teeth as his horse barely missed solid ground.

The dust that was rising seemed to be a good enough cover to get out of, but they weren’t done just yet.

“We got more coming up on the right!” Lenny’s calls were brought her back from her blood filled day dreams, and she saw a man riding up close enough to try and jump onto the carriage and right where she was laying.

She wasn’t fast enough, but Charles was, who had sent the man – mid-air – flying back with the resounding boom of his sawed off.

“Nice save!” she yelled at him, as he positioned himself to hang outside the window.

“How many are left?” Charles called out to John, his revolver sitting heavy in his hand.

“I can’t tell with all this dust!”

“We should take that chance to get out of here!”

“Alright, gang! Let’s ride!” Dutch’s words echoed, and all that followed were the whooping cheers as they left the government men to bleed out in the dirt.

.-.-.

The whoops and howls and cheers that came into camp were loud enough, she was sure that Blackwater was still cowering behind the dead bodies of their law men.

She was out of the carriage first, rubbing her temples and finishing off her second cigarette as she walked up to Hosea with Dutch not too far behind.

“How did it go, my dear?”

“Well, no one died.” Her shoulders slump with her groan, and she looked over at everyone’s excitement as they started to unload the bag of money from the carriage. “And while I’m happy and excited, they seem to be _ecstatic_.” Hosea’s chuckle sent a feeling down her spine, and she found her shoulders releasing the smallest bit of tension.

“It’s a pretty big haul, not a doubt in my mind says they _shouldn’t_ be this excited.”

“Yeah, well. I personally feel that a party should wait until we get out of the area.”

“But why, Miss Olsen?” Dutch slapped a hand on her shoulder, and the smallest bit of tension that melted away by Hosea’s low chuckle hit her once more; tenfold. “We have _money_ to go west? Why shouldn’t we celebrate it?”

“Oh, I don’t know… who was that man who called out to you as you held a poor woman at gun point?” she’d never seen a man’s face switch so fast, as if someone in his brain had flicked a light switch from happy to angry.

“Are you questioning me?” his grip on her shoulder tightened, and she merely swatted it away.

“She was a civilian, Dutch.” She snarled, baring teeth like some wild animal. “If I weren’t there to shoot that Pinkerton guy, what would you have done?”

Dutch grows quiet at that, looking away from her ice cold eyes. She stared right through him; he knew that, and it honestly terrified him that she had put two and two together before he even could.

But she sighed, dropping the subject all together. “We should move, than celebrate. That way, we can sleep with her wits about us.”

She saw something flicker in Dutch’s eyes as he glanced at her than glanced at Hosea.

Then he was barking order.

“Alright, folks! Pack up!”

Hosea placed a soft hand on her shoulder, and she leaned towards it without even thinking of her actions. “You keep him in his place, you know that?”

“Men like him aren’t hard to control and boss around.” She crossed her arms and smiled at him, “You make it seem like it was their idea all along, and they’ll do what you want with ease.”

Hosea’s chuckle reverberated through her, “Quite the talented girl, aren’t you?”

“Depends on what your definition of ‘talent’ is.” He patted her shoulder softly.

“You did good today.”

And with that, they were all set west.

.-.-.

_What was worse than having a brother?_

_Having eleven of them._

_Being the youngest within her family, as well as a girl no only made her father happy, but it made her brother happy to finally have a sweet little thing to watch over and protect with their lives._

_Funny thing though, she was always protecting them in the end._

_It wasn’t because her brothers were meek or pathetic, she just couldn’t find it in herself to leave certain topics alone when certain kids at school would mock her brothers for doing what they do. They knew just how to egg her on, to push her buttons until she started crying or screaming for a teacher._

_But now she was in high school, and those same bullies who though middle school was easy, thought high school was easy._

_Boy, were they wrong._

_She had taken classes over the summer, with her brother – William – for self-defense. Her father disapproved of it wholeheartedly, but her mother was sneaky enough to send Will money so he could take Blair out for these classes._

_So when these girls – these prissy little things that believed they could walk all over her and tell that she was a little pig – came up to her and pushed her around physically and verbally._

_You bet your sweet ass she broke the main bitches arm like a fucking twig._

_Blair will always remember the way the girl’s scream – that blood curdling scream that turned into a sloppy sob – echoed through the outdoor lounging area._

_That was the first time she felt such a high sense of pride in her abilities._

.-.-.

Night time was the worst time for her, but for some reason she found herself tired and excited for sleep.

Granted, they did just spend three days traveling down back past Armadillo and past Tumbleweed and setting themselves up on the edge of the Sea of Coronado.

The lake that lead to a river was murky, but with how the weather was heating up, the water felt nice against her feet as she stood at the beach with her pants rolled up.

Her cigarette was held loosely between her finger as she stared up at the rising moon; listening closely to the way Javier strummed his guitar and how the girls sang their slightly drunken tune, the men following right behind them.

She found herself at ease, as the cicadas seemed to find their rest within the cooling night, and birds seemed to find their nests only so they could prepare for the morning.

Water pushed and splashed at her ankles and she exhaled a plume of smoke.

She wonders, though – deep and with need – if this was just fate's cruel way of saying.

_This is where you belong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now we move west, but lord I have PLANS.  
> FOR MANGOS.


	5. Apart of the Gang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... uh...  
> I am shameful to say that I love Kieran and I love Sadie (not together but lord they would have a fantastic dynamic is so).  
> But I'm proud to say that they're finally here!  
> Love them

If fate was telling her where she belonged, then surely it was testing her patience.

“Dutch…” she growled, biting her tongue and cheek to keep from saying somethings that she would regret later on. Blood hit her tongue and she scrunched nose like she was snarling.

Dutch snarled back.

“We need more money.” She huffed at him and crossed her arms, pacing heavily around the poker table.

“We have _half a million fucking dollars_!” she sneers at him, and she clenches and unclenches her fists to keep her hands steady.

“That,” he’s puffing his cigar, leaning in a rickety chair with Molly in his lap. Blair notices the way Molly glared at her, and frankly, she could care less.

The jealousy that leaked from her pores and radiated from her soft whispers only caused Blair to grind her teeth.

To put that much energy into something or someone and leave yourself neglected…

What a fucking waste.

“That money will go towards a plot of land.” Dutch is calm, his hand resting on Molly’s hip and his other holding his cigar. He’s glaring at her; a warning to tone her voice and her attitude down.

But she didn’t get this far by tucking her tail between her legs.

“What are you buying; a fucking state?” she gives an exasperated sigh at this point, pinching the bridge of her nose and placing her hand on her hip.

Dutch growled, shifting Molly in his lap. It was then she remembered that Arthur and Hosea sat at the table with her. “You’ve done nothing but chal-,”

“Cause you want to prove your dick is bigger than everyone’s!” she snaps, barking at him and slamming her hand down hard against the wooden table. Arthur jolted back from it when he felt it shake and Hosea merely looked at her with a small, amused smile. Molly had jumped in Dutch’s arms, holding him close and avoiding her cold stare.

Even with the sweltering heat of summer, it felt like the temperature had dropped ten degrees just from her looks.

“She’s right, Dutch.” Hosea – bless his soul – stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder.

So this is what acceptance and love felt like…

“Hosea –,” Hosea merely held his hand up, silencing Dutch before he could even try and defend himself.

“Hear her out. If she’s passionate enough to challenge you, you might like what you hear.”

There was a moment of contemplation, a grumble, than a sigh. Dutch waved his hand.

“Fine.” His voice was tense, and his lips created a firm line, but he relaxed in his chair and listened to Blair intently.

“If we need money, we’ll get it going _west_.”

“From where? From whom?”

“I have contacts.” Her voice was firm, but her body shook from anxiety, “From here to California.” She states it so bluntly, but she saw the shine in his eyes and the way they peaked with interest and curiosity.

 _California_.

“Alright. We’ll talk more about these _contacts_ in the morning. Until then,” Dutch shifts in his chair, signally Molly to get up and drag him to their tent, “I’m going to turn in for the night.”

Blair makes a disgusted noise, and stomps off. She does her best not to seem shaky and anxious as she reaches into her pockets for a pack.

She didn’t have it on her.

_Fuck…_

Her hands shook, her heart pounded, and everything around seemed to dull to her senses. Shoes were left discarded by a small tree that sat a few feet away from the shore of the lake, and all she wanted to do was drown everything out within the murky water.

She couldn’t though.

Someone was watching.

“Smoke?” she snaps her head to the side with wide eyes and clenched fists.

Arthur.

He passed her an unlit cigarette – one from the same pack she gave him a few days ago – and handed her a single match. He was being nice, far too nice for the way she’s been treating him.

It was odd, to say the least, but she wasn’t about to turn down a cigarette.

“Thanks.”

Silence was something she always longed for, but with how her anxieties still weren’t completely soothed, she tapped and swung her foot lightly against the softest waves of the lake.

He spoke first.

“You got some fight in ya.” She grunted, inhaling and ravishing the feeling of the smoke filling her lungs and the nicotine hitting her system – slowly but surely. “To challenge Dutch like that.” He whistles lowly, and all she can do is roll her eyes at his condescending reaction. “’m surprised no one shot you then and there.”

“You ever think that maybe – _just maybe_ – I’m more important to this gang than you?” she tips her head back and lets the smoke float from her lips, and she knows that Arthur is watching.

He growls; low and wild. “You watch that mouth, woman.”

“And you watch your back, _boy_.” She snaps back at him, blowing the rest of the smoke in his face. Blair notices the glare that he held, and it almost seemed like steam was rolling from his ears.

She laughs; mocking and just as condescending as his tone was, “That’s cute, you think you’re scary.” She finishes off her cigarette, throwing it down on the dirt and crushing it with a bare foot. “But keep in mind Arthur, I’ve seen scary. And you don’t have his smile.”

She stalks off after that, happy enough that she got the final word.

.-.-.

_Her father used to hit her._

_Then again, she used to talk back to the point where her father saw red and a need to discipline his only girl._

_But that was no excuse to hit her the way he did._

_See – while her father loved her to the moon and back, and he would give his life totally and completely for her – he was raised in a family where women were nothing but lowly servants meant to serve their husbands and god. Women must be pure of improper thought and must wait until marriage to have any kind of sexual intimacy._

_Her father claimed that they were all Christian._

_But she knew that this wasn’t what Christianity stood for; not in this day and age._

_No, his following was a cult that used God as a way to control women and mold them into whatever beings they pleased._

_She was lucky to have brothers – eleven of them who cared and loved and protected her – who believed that this way of life that they were raised in was wrong._

_But poor, poor Blair._

_She didn’t have a choice in the matter; at least until she left for the Marines and cut all contact with her father._

_She still talks to her mother; trying to convince her to leave her father and live with her. She had no problem with the idea of having her mother with her in her small, two bedroom home._

_She was a mama’s girl after all._

.-.-.

Blair sat in her tent, a rosary in her hands and she mumbled a Hail Mary.

She was already on her eighth set, and she was supposed to get to ten.

Always ten.

She didn’t know why.

Brandon used to do it before he went out into the field, and she soon enough, simply copied what he did.

Hell, she even found a slight sense of solace in it as she did so.

The sun peeked through her tent, as she finished up the last Hail Mary. Lips pressed to the cross that dangled between her fingers, before she tucked it away across her neck to join the real world.

Well, what semblance of a real world this gang had.

Since the Boat Heist in Blackwater, the people of the gang accepted her with an ease that only a family member would feel. She spilt liquor and blood with them, no doubt they would feel that way.

But she was also someone who simply challenged Dutch, and had no fear in doing so.

Speaking of the devil.

“Miss Blair!” she was walking over to where the coffee percolator sat, ignoring his calls. Dutch groaned. “Miss Blair, coffee can wait.”

“If you want me to pay attention and not bite your head off, _you will_ let me grab my coffee.” She growled at him, low and threatening as she poured herself a cup of bean water.

She heard Dutch mumble, but she didn’t care because she had her coffee.

“You know, if you drink too much you might turn into it.” Arthur muttered, and all she could do was scoff into her cup.

“Here’s hoping.” She ignored his slightly heated glare, and looked over to Dutch. “So… what do you need?”

“That information on those contacts you said you had.” She groaned, slumping in her chair like a hormonal teenager with an attitude problem.

“I didn’t think you were serious…” she grumbled, slurping her coffee and watching how Arthur twitched with annoyance.

“I was dead serious. You want us to move west so badly, that you brought up you had contacts.”  He leaned against the table, his cigar in his hand, “So, tell me what contacts that is.”

“Afanasi Petrov, would be the first guy we would have to pass over.” She sips her coffee more, glancing over the table. “Ya gotta map?”

Hosea rolled one out for her, and she took out a few coins from her pocket.

“We would have to go up north – into Oklahoma – but he’s right at the border. He’s a mercenary who sells premium Russian weapons on the black market as well as information to the Government.”

“Which Government?”

“Any, really.” She places a coin at the corner of Oklahoma – where it connects with Texas and Arkansas. “Mexico, America, Russia. He does it for a price, and its usual good.” She shrugs at him, sighing. “He’ll pay the big bucks to have his competitors thrown out, if you know what I mean.”

“Who else do you know?” Dutch puffed his cigar, intrigued and excited for adventure and bloodshed.

“An Italian woman by the name of Aurora Bronte. Her brother runs Saint Denis, and she runs a city that sits right at the border of Denver in Colorado. She’s a nice, lovely woman, but she is one mean bastard that I wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in.” she places a coin over the dot of Denver.

“After that you have an American fellow; Jonathan Kimberly. He runs a shop that makes… well… Bombs.” She places a coin in Nevada. “He’s a good man, surprisingly enough, but not good enough to do some racist shit.”

“What?” she nods, before sighing.

“The man has attempted to bomb Indian reservations and pueblos and ghetto areas. Anyone who’s not white, he will automatically hate, so.”

“And what do you suggest we do with this information you have given us?” Dutch looked at her as she finished off her cup.

“Well, personally. I want them dead, they’re terrible people with a shit ton of money that would help us get west. But, you know… you _are_ the boss.” She looks at him with tired eyes, and she hopes he grabs the hint.

“Well, I guess we’re killing them, then.”

She smiles.

“I guess we are.”

.-.-.

_“You’re qualifications are fantastic. Seven languages?” she nods, her back straight and her uniform freshly pressed and folded._

_“Yes, Sir.”_

_“Run by me which languages.”_

_“Russian, Farsi, Arabic, Italian, German, French, and Hebrew.” The man in front of her hums, still looking down at her resume._

_“You passed at the top of her class in boot camp, and you went through the intelligence program with fantastic marks.” She tries too hard not to wring at her hands as he still continues to look down. “What would you do if you weren’t able to get into the School of Infantry?”_

_“I would go back into training military canines, sir. Or back into intelligence.” That seemed to be the right answer, or at least she thinks._

_There was a pause, before her commanding officer signed a piece of paper and handed it to her._

_“Congratulation. You’re on your way to becoming a grunt.”_

.-.-.

“Why did he have to send me out with _you_ , of all people?” She groans, tilting her head back to look up at the darkening sky.

Dutch had asked if it were possible to go out and take a look at a possible camp sight towards the first point – closest to Afanasi Petrov.

What he didn’t mention was that Arthur _fucking_ Morgan was going to go with her.

“What, would you rather have Micah?” he smirked, thinking his comeback was full of spite.

“ _Yes._ ” She hissed at him, whipping her head towards him and snarling. “At least he and I can get behind some of the same shit.”

“Ah, yes. Like you both being crazy clowns that are too trigger happy.”

“At least I don’t fucking hesitate at the first sign of a threat.” She grumbles, keeping her horse at a steady trot as Congo hung out on the back of the mare.

“Yer a pain in my ass, ya know that?”

“I can say the same about you.” She waves her hand at him, before pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Always thinking you are so high and mighty when you’re nothing but a lost puppy following a so called ‘mighty man’ around.”

“What your tongue, _woman_.”

“Then you watch yours, _boy_.”

This kind of bickering went on into the night until the morning left them silent and bleary eyed as they came up on a camp spot that seemed decent for the taking.

One problem though.

“ _O’Driscolls_.” They both hissed as they hid behind a rock.

They looked at each other, one was wide eyed and the other squinted.

“You know these fools.” Arthur asked, forgetting already how she and Dutch came to know each other.

“I won’t lie, I did a few odd jobs for Colm, but the slimy bastard was too handsy.” She shrugged and pushed a fresh set of bullets in her Mauser. “He’s missing a pinky and ringer finger because of me.”

“ _You_ used to _work_ for _Colm_.” Arthur hissed, almost ready to pounce on her instead of the threat in front of them.

“Oh, shut up. The money was good and need I remind you that I killed a shit load of them after I got my money.” She sneered, and looked out ahead.

A woman, with gorgeous blond hair and torn up clothes, was tied to a tree with a feral look in her eyes and a snarl on her lips.

Blair didn’t recognize her from the last time she saw them.

“Look, right at the tree.” She lightly tapped his shoulder, then pointed out. “We don’t want any casualties. You go left, I’ll go right and we’ll meet in the middle once we’re done.”

“Wait, wha –?” he didn’t even have a chance to ask her what she meant, because she was already sneaking off into the right side of the camp, with her scarf covering her face.

She was silent in her killings, bringing a knife up to their throats and slitting them slowly before moving onto her next kill.

He wondered – as he stabbed and slashed at men’s throats with as much grace as a burly man like himself could have – just how much blood stained her hands, and if they were comparable to his.

Neither of them shot first, but they sure as well had the last shot.

The firefight didn’t last as long as Blair had hoped for; she was bored out of her mind after all, but when one man tried to run and hide in the midst of the hitched up horses, she couldn’t help but feel like having fun.

“Get the woman at the tree, I’ll take this one.” She stalked the man like he was nothing but prey, and she enjoyed the way he ducked under horses and weaved around them.

“I didn’t do anything, I swear!” the man called out, his voice shrill with fear as she placed a soft hand on a horse’s neck before ducking under it. “Please just let me go!”

She threw her knife at him, hitting him square in the calf. The thud that followed as well as the sob of pain that escaped his lips enticed her.

“Why you runnin’, boy?” she asked, gripping his hair and dragging him away from the horses. “I only want to talk.” He whimpered, and all she could think of was slitting his throat and tyin –.

Arthur watched her as he placed his coat over the trembling woman, and soon she felt something pang in her chest.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that.” She deadpanned, dropping the man.

“He’s unarmed.”

“And an _O’Driscoll_.”

“I ain’t no O’Driscoll.” He called out, hoping it would save his life.

“Shut it.” Blair hissed at him, kicking his bleeding leg. He yelped and whimpered.

“Just tie him up and leave him until Dutch get here.” She glared at him, but for some ungodly reason, she dropped her gaze and did as she was told.

What an odd sensation that was left in her chest.

.-.-.

_Her first deployment was filled with roughness and wonder as she walked along the streets of the Middle East._

_Kids lined up to say hello, and while most of the Marines she was with had no problems giving them water bottles and candy, some had stayed at the sidelines and watched as if to protect their brothers from the hidden horrors they were blind to as they tended to the children._

_She was barely twenty-two, and on her first deployment._

_She was barely twenty-two when she heard the screams of terror followed by explosions and gunfire coming from the north._

_And as native civilians ran away from the danger and terror._

_She and her brothers in arms were the first to run_ towards _the danger._

.-.-.

The new camp was quaint and cleaned of any dead men or anything of no value.

It sat on the edge of a cliff – a mesa is she remember her time in high school geography correctly – overlooking a gorgeous red valley.

It was quiet the set up, and surely, it would make a decent temporary home for them.

Arthur came up behind her, sitting next to her with a peace offering.

Seared rabbit, which was definitely bland as hell.

“Not hungry.” She muttered, a bottle of liquor in her lap and a cigarette tucked behind her ear.

“Eat it.” She looked at him, then grumbled.

“Fine.”

They sat in silence as they watched the sun fall down between the hills and the mesas, and she did her best _not_ to throw the bland, slightly burnt mean over the cliff.

“You lost it back there, with that O’Driscoll.” She looked down at her lap, hiding her snarls.

“I don’t need _you_ to judge me for _my_ actions.” He chuckled, lighting a cigarette of his own.

“I don’ understand your specific kinda crazy, but I admire your total commitment to it.”

“Don’t mock me, Arthur.” Her voice was low, unsteady. “What survived may not be kind, but it’s me.”

“And what exactly did you survive, before you came into the gang.”

The thought about it, feeling the overwhelming emotions well up and ready to over spill.

She downed her small bottle before placing it to the side, hoping the warmth in her belly would sooth her doubts, her fears, and her emotions.

“More than you’ll ever know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot of my inspiration for Blair came from the movie Atomic Blond, my dad (who was in the Infantry in the Marines), the first woman ever to pass the School of Infantry (which is in the county I was born in) and just my need for some badass females.  
> While I did the best research I could for Blair and her time in the Military, a lot of it is not accurate, so PLEASE take it with a grain of salt because I didn't want to ask my dad about how hard it is to get into the school of infantry.  
> He'd think I was weird.  
> EDIT: Also! Should I do some smutty smut smut or nah? Let me know, because if that was something you all are interested in, I'll TRY to add it in.  
> Also how far should I take my girls PTSD, because I won't lie, she has it but like... how much angst is too much angst.


	6. Honor Amongst Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hate myself, because I'm trying my best to not put too much filler in. But this feels like filler.  
> Also, this is the song used.  
> [Caroline - Colter Wall](https://youtu.be/Q82-5XizdiQ)

Three days.

Three days, Blair had spent alone with Arthur (minus the woman – Sadie Adler – and that O’Driscoll boy who stated he wasn’t an O’Driscoll) and during those three days, she’s never wanted to kill a man so much.

“Do you ever _stop_ twiddling in that damn journal.” She snapped, for the tenth time that day.

She’d already gone through two packs of cigarettes because of him.

“Do you ever _stop_ smoking?” she wasn’t quick enough on her comeback, and he gave a sharp laugh. “What, nicotine got your tongue?”

“You’re _implorable_.” That was the best she could do, because every time his blue eyes locked onto hers, she either drowned in them or looked away.

She scoffed, and pushed herself away from the log, and away from Arthur.

“I need air and to be away from _you_.”

“You started it.” He chided, a smirk gracing his lips.

“Well, I’ll finish it too.”

Three fucking days, is three too long.

.-.-.

_She remembered her first time in Thailand._

_The cheap liquor, the authentic food, and the unruliness that came from what seemed like a knock-off fight club under the first bar her brothers took her to._

_Muay Thai was what a majority of the men that fought within the boarded up square with sand all over the floor, were all cocky and no common sense._

_One guy, who seemed slightly drunk off his ass, challenged Brandon._

_Brandon was never one for confrontation, he would simply wave the man off and go back to his drink and small bowl of soup in front of him._

_When the one guy refused to take no for an answer, he knocked the bowl out of Brandon’s hand and into his lap._

_Blair gritted her teeth, slapping the man in an instant and pointing for him to leave._

_“You better watch yourself, unless you want to lose some teeth.” Brandon – who was always the sweetest one in the battalion – tried to pull her down from her high horse._

_But it was too late, because she was pushing the man by the shoulder towards the sand pit surrounded by drunken locals who were throwing money in a metal bucket._

_She took her shoes off before the pit, loving the way the sand stuck between her toes, and she couldn’t help but remember her time back at Camp Pendleton and San Diego._

_The man was wary, and unsure as to why a_ woman _would want to fight him._

_But he still did it._

_And she’s sure he still regrets it to this day._

_He had thrown his leg up, a loud yell coming from his throat, only to have it blocked by Blair and to fall over because he had left his balls open for a grab._

_And a pull_

_She stuck her nose up, took her shoes, and left the bar with Brandon in tow._

_She remembers that night all too fondly because that was the night Brandon ravished her in between the sheets in a cheap Thai motel._

.-.-.

On the fourth day, Dutch and the rest came up into the new camp with Arthur in the lead.

Blair was happy to have a whole day away from him, but to see him ride in – with the way his hips rolled effortlessly in the seat of his saddle, how his right hand would hang at his side and how his head was tipped down so the brim of his hat kept the sun out his eyes – she couldn’t help but huff and look away from them _all_.

“Looks like you two got on very well.” Dutch commended, smiling at Blair who was as stiff as a board. She waved him off.

“Yeah, yeah you might want to thank the fucking O’Driscoll’s for this place. They found it first.”

“O’Driscoll’s?” His voice was tight with question and concern while Blair pointed over to the boy – Kieran Duffy, from what Arthur got from him – tied to the tree with his mouth gagged and his eyes blindfolded.

“Yeah, Arthur wouldn’t let me kill him. So he’s tied to a tree.” She deadpanned, looking over Dutch’s face to gauge any kind of reaction. “We also have a new woman in the gang. Sadie, I think was her name.” she watched Dutch clip the ends of a cigar before lighting it.

“How did you come upon her?”

“She was tied to the tree the O’Driscoll is tied to now.” She stated, matter-of-factly. “Poor woman, won’t look or talk to Arthur. She’ll sneer and snap at him, but she’ll talk to me and most likely the other women.” Dutch offers her a hit of his cigar, she takes it. “Keep Micah away from her unless he wants to lose his balls.”

“I’ll have the girls set up a tent for her near them. Until then, go help unpack.”

She did what she was told.

The moon was high in the sky by the time the camp was settled and joyous in their arrival of some place fresh and new.

Dutch – being the kind of man who liked to boast and take pride in the smaller pleasures in life – raised his drink to Blair, to Arthur, to Hosea and everyone else.

“A toast! To the incompetence of our enemies!” the cheers and whoops echoed and what followed were the howls of wolves and the yips of foxes.

The night died as the howls towards the moon did and all who was left around the fire were the ones who could handle their alcohol a bit better than most.

“Ay, Cariño, do you know any songs? From your time out west?” Javier picks at his six string as his asks and all she can do is hum, a bottle hanging loosely between her fingers and a cigarette nearly finished between her lips.

“I might know a song or two.” She throws the butt of her cig in the fire pit and reaches for his guitar.

“You play, Chica?”

“I used to do it when I was young, but I might be rusty as ‘ell.” Her words slur, her body melting into the red dirt under her. “I don’t know what to play though…”

“Whatever comes to mind first.” Abigail leaned against John’s arm, and he’s too tipsy to pull away – or maybe he enjoys the presences of the woman that bore him a child.

She contemplates the songs she heard, and played on the jets that took her over to the Middle East.

She strummed it softly before picking at a few strings.

_There’s a place where the sun doth shine_

_And the birds keep time with the pines up a yonder_

_That’s the home of my Caroline,_

_She’s dancing in the sky._

She bobs her head, smiling when she messes up a note only to pick up once more.

_Oh how sweet,_

_When we meet on the golden streets of the great white valley,_

_These ole chains around my feet,_

_They're pulling me back down._

_Caroline, oh Caroline,_

_I’ll be home, just any ole time_

_The grave and the garden won’t be satisfied,_

_Till your name is next to mine._

Her fingers were graceful over the strings, and she merely leaned head back to stare up at the starry night sky.

_My bones do break,_

_And my hands do shake,_

_As I lie in the wake of times cruel slaughter,_

_But if I die before I wake,_

_I’m gonna see my Caroline._

Her words seem to float between the people of the camp as she continued to pick and strum at the wire strings. Her laughs between the chorus and lines were airy, and her smile was as genuine as it would get from her tipsy stupor.

The girl of the camp seemed to join in on the lines that they seemed to hear her repeat, and soon enough so did the boys.

Blair; however, didn’t notice. She was in her own world, imagining her Brandon next to her, singing songs with her to raise moral even if every man was so tightly sat together.

Tears sprung from her eyes, and when she noticed it, not one soul did.

There were soft cheers and lofty praise as she came down from her slight high of well-earned memories. She gave a bashful smile.

“I might hit the hay, I got an early morning tomorrow.” She got up, placing the guitar in Javier’s hand with a genteel ease. “Thank you.”

“No, Cariño. _Thank you_.” Her laugh was breathy and she merely waved at everyone a goodnight.

It was the only night she had slept peacefully, and she was sure that it was going to be the only night.

.-.-.

_Her hands grazed over the cold water, as she stepped carefully into deeper waters of a lake._

_She notices the goosebumps that climbed their way up her arms; up her neck; down her chest; over her stomach. A shiver traveled up her spine, and all she could do was gasp and sigh as the cold water covered her up to her waist._

_Out in front of her – only a few feet away – stood a man with sandy blond hair and broad shoulders._

_Blair smiled, knowing full well it could only be Brandon, waiting for her in her dreams to give her the love she truly believed she would never feel again._

_But then she saw blue._

_Blue eyes, flawed sun kissed skin flooded her sense, and she fell back into the water. She always loved water; hell she found freedom in it._

_But when arms started to grab and latch and pull her into the infinite depths of the lake, she truly wondered why._

_Why was Arthur Morgan in her fucking dreams…_

.-.-.

It had been a _while_ since she woken up with a start, with her heart pounding and her breath catching in her throat.

Sweat dripped from her brow, down her cheekbone, her cheek, then down her chin before dripping onto her bare thigh.

It was then, she noted that it wasn’t sweet, but tears.

When was the last time she cried? The death of Brandon, possible, but before that event; she couldn’t remember when the last time she had shed a tear.

The heels of her palms dug deep into her eye sockets, causing her to see stars and spots in her vision as someone had called for her from outside her tent.

“Miss Blair, it’s a quarter to ten.” It was Hosea, the man who she believed was _godsend_.

He was the kind of man she wished would have been her father.

But luck was never on her side, and it still wasn’t.

“I’m getting up, don’t worry. I’ll be out in a minute, Hosea.” His chuckle caused her nightmares to disappear, as she stood and stretched the ache from her bones.

She pushed herself out of the tent, cigarette between her lips and her books and socks in her hand. The dirt was still cool against her toes but as the sun beat down on her neck, she found herself throwing her hair up in whatever bun she could pull through a band.

She ditched her coats for the simple cover of her button up shirt (which was a men’s shirt, if we’re going to be honest about it), the undone buttons not leaving much imagination for most.

Dutch cleared his throat as she took a seat at the poker table, her shoes leisurely thrown under the table.

“So much for an early morning, Miss Blair.” She couldn’t even be mad about his humorous snark, and she only chuckled.

“You’re not wrong, Dutch.” She lights her cigarette, her eyes fluttering as she inhales the mornings first puff. “But, Afanasi isn’t the most punctual man. He won’t care.”

“You gonna cover up when you see him?” Dutch softly questions, pointing at how her shirt was buttoned down to show off her chest, and her rosary.

“Nah… Russians are dicks – no doubt – but he won’t touch me if he wants to keep his jerk off hand.” She bends down, slipping on her thick, woolen socks before throwing on her lace up boots.

“Should someone go with you?” Hosea chimed in this time, a worried tone laced within the question. Blair only smiled.

“If he sees others, _especially_ other men. He’ll think it’s a threat. Going by myself, with a nice bottle of vodka and a decent attitude. We’ll be golden by the end of this week.”

“I don’t feel comfortable with only _you_ going.” Micah sneers, a bowl of Pearson’s stew in his hands. She groans in annoyance.

“Russian’s are an acquired taste, not to mention… I don’t think anyone here speaks Russian.”

There was a silence that lingered a little longer then she wanted. She finished tying her shoes, before buttoning up a few buttons on her shirt, but the lace from her (modern) bra peeked out.

“Take John with you! There’s nothing he can do wrong, as long as he stays quite.” Dutch yells at her as she walks over to her tent.

She grumbles, as John looked up from his spot by the fire as his name was called.

“Huh?”

It’s gonna be a long fucking _day_.

.-.-.

_She was considered a prodigy where she thought she was stupid._

_She had some semblance of an eidetic memory and – even when she was blindfolded and thrown into the back of a truck; beaten and abused – she was still able to find her way back to base._

_Back home._

_She was_ smart _and she was_ resourceful _and due to that, she was an extremely useful asset to the military._

_And she found herself in love with how the military treated her._

_With how it pushed her to be better despite the yelling and the abuse she had to endure, because if she could endure that._

_She can overcome_ anything _._

.-.-.

She kept at a steady canter, John riding a little bit behind her. His horse – a pretty little liver chestnut – was a bit smaller than hers and seemed to have a hard time keeping up with the large gait of the black beauty.

“Is your boy gonna be okay?” she calls back towards John, slowing down to an extended trot. The roll of her hips was smooth, but as John slowed Old Boy to a trot, he bounced all over on the horses back.

“He’ll be fine.” He calls out, and she slows to a smoother trot for her butt and back. “Arthur always had a tendency to get the biggest horses, so keeping up with beauties with long legs ain’t hard for him.”

“You look like your strugglin’.” She chuckles, watching at red dirt turned to moist soil and the rocks turned to talk standing trees.

“I’ll be fine.” His groans of annoyance as she pushes her mare back into a canter only brought a laugh to her lips.

“So, it’s about a day’s ride to where we want to go.”

“And where is this place anyways? You didn’t really tell me much about it?” John finally made his way next to her, Old Boy swishing his tail and snorting with every soft tap of the spur.

“It’s in the middle of nowhere.” She stated, bluntly and without looking over to him. “I _know_ how to get there but explaining it is hard and it just won’t happen.”

They rode in silence after that, the nearing summer sun blasting down on their necks and leaving them hot and red. The ride was smooth, but by the time the sun started to fall in the east, their trail ended up going off the path and into the dense forest that they had found themselves in.

This went on until the moon was high up into the sky, and only John felt an anxiousness that he would never admit to feeling.

Blair pulled her mare to a halt, and waited in the middle of a clearing and she waved at John to do the same.

“What are –?” she silenced him with a look that could have surely killed, before leaning over her horn.

“ _Only the moon brings out the wolves._ ” She calls out into the emptiness of the dark forest. It was then – as John squinted out into the distance – he saw the bodies of something and the whistles and whispers of men.

“ _And the sun brings out the lions._ ” John didn’t know what was being said, it all sounded like gibberish with a thick accent. His hand hovered over his revolver as two men walked over to their horses and started to pull on the reins; leading them deeper into the dense woods.

“What’s happening?” he whispers over to Blair, not taking his eyes off the man who pulled Old Boy along, gentle and slow.

“Quiet, John.” She hisses, leaning into her seat and enjoying the quiet calm the chirping birds and rustling of bushes brought to her.

“ _Petrov won’t be happy to see you with a stranger._ ” Blair scoffed at him, rolling her eyes.

“ _I didn’t have much of a choice._ ” They were lead to a cave; a man made cave that looked to have been blown up and picked at before it was created into this gorgeous home for these black market Russians.

John started to get yelled at, and he simply sat there with a face of pure confusion.

He looked about ready to put a bullet in his head.

“ _Don’t yell at him, dipshit. He doesn’t speak Russian._ ”

“ _Why did you bring this fucking Yankee with you, Lion?_ ”

“ _Like I said, I didn’t have a choice._ ” She looks over at John as she dismounts, “Get off your horse, John. We’re going in the cave.”

“Excuse me? I’m not going into that cave.” She shrugged, taking a bottle of vodka she was offer.

“Fine, you can stay out here with the boys.”

He followed close behind her into the depths of the dark cave with dim lights.

Laughter boomed and echoed through the walls of the cave – there makeshift home – and she knew that it was only Afanasi’s laugh that would echo that loud.

She huffed lightly, taking notes of each and every mark that was carved within the rocks and how each turn and curve of the halls led them to the main lodging area.

A fire went on off to the side of the circular room, and surrounding it was old, Victorian style couches and chairs with furs strewn about.

Afanasi was always one for a gaudy style. Terrible velvet and cliché, store bought furs.

He has never hunted, let alone lifted a gun in his life.

“ _Ah, my Lion. You should have written me, I would have prepared your room._ ” He’s up from his spot on the couch, the women he was surrounded by were suddenly jealous that the attention they had was now radiating towards Blair.

“ _Wolf, you know I never have time to write anymore._ ” He tries to take her hand to place his lips on her knuckles, but she shoves her hands in her pockets. “ _I’m here for a job._ ”

“ _With the Yankee?_ ”

“ _With multiple Yankee’s._ ” Afanasi snaps at the women to leave, and they do so with nothing but a glare towards Blair.

“ _Why are you running with Yankee’s now? Is the money better than what I offer?_ ”

“ _The freedom is better, but the money could be better._ ” She places herself on one of the smaller chairs, spreading her legs wide and snapping for a vodka. “ _We need money, and I know you have a way of getting it._ ”

Afanasi laughs.

“ _No._ ”

“ _No?_ ”

“ _I don’t work with Yankees._ ”

“ _But you’ll work with the government._ ”

“ _That’s different, Lion._ ” She sighs, and gets up.

Guns start to point towards her, and all she can do is glare and snarl at them.

“ _Enough._ ” Afanasi waved them all off, smiling. “ _When you dump the Yankee’s, come see me._ ” He throws back a shot of vodka with a satisfied sigh.

“ _I’ll show myself out._ ”

And she left, with John in tow.

 “What the hell was that?!” John hissed at her, as she checked the girth on her mare.

“Simple.” She pulled burs from the mares’ mane before patting her neck. “I was seeing what needs to be done.”

“What are you talking about?”

“His men are on a job right now. He usually has more around the border, but when we go up towards their northern border, we’ll see that it’s completely empty and unguarded.”

“You were…” she hums, and places herself into the saddle.

“I was gauging a plan of attack. He’s a threat, and having him gone would not only give us money, but give the government one less fucking hassle to deal with.”

“You think Dutch will be about it?” John mounts Old Boy, pushing him to follow Blair.

“He’s going to if he wants new guns and money.”

.-.-.

_New guns and money._

_She remembered being showed off to the new boys who entered the school of infantry. She remembered the small whispers that came with it, and she remembered the way they all stopped the moment she one upped them all._

_They were the new guns._

_Her promotion – months after the death of Brandon – was the money._

_The money from the promotion went to Brandon’s mother; the one woman that would always have his soul no matter what she did._

_No doubt, Blair had his heart, but his mother – who raised him by herself while working two jobs – had his heart and she always respected that._

_She remembered the way his mother would always call her love, or hun, or Sweetpea._

_She remembered those words that she had told her._

_“I wish he wasn’t afraid to marry you.”_

_But he was; not because he was in the military, but because he seemed ashamed that he was a single child who was raised in a low income home with only a mother._

_If she had known everything he did before his death; she would have proposed herself._

.-.-.

She stood over the mesa, the last cigarette from her pack between her fingers and plumes of smoke that curled from her mouth like a fox’s tail.

She sighs, watching as the sun sets red and orange and pink.

“I’m tired of getting fucked in ways that don’t end in an orgasm.”

She groans, throws her cig over the edge, and goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO I MADE A TUMBLR!  
> [My Tumblr](https://redwrites.tumblr.com/)  
> Feel free to like, talk to me or not.  
> I haven't been on this site in years so i hope everything still sucks like it used to!  
> Also I got a lot of want for angst, but no one asked about smut so...  
> Smut or no smut?  
> Hit me up. Let me know.  
> PS: I'm really tired. I'm trying to move out and I'm still getting used to working full time at my job. I might take a break and just write out a bunch of shit.


	7. Natural Born Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched Triple Frontier on Netflix thinking I would find some good old inspiration.  
> I only found pain.  
> Please watch it, It's got Oscar Isaac and Ben Affleck.

Blair was the kind of girl that smoked a pack a day. If someone calculated how often she does it, they would tell you she lit up a new one every two hours; depending on her stress levels.

But – for a majority of her smoking like – she would never smoke it at a specific time. All the pack would do was burn a hole in her pocket until it was completely empty.

Today; however, she was on her second pack – nearing her third.

“Will you two fucking _settle_?” she growls at Micah and Bill – who knows what they were doing in the first place, all that mattered was she was pissed and ready to put a fucking bullet in both their heads – as she flicks ash their way. “If you want to bitch like prissy little girls, do it away from me.”

Bill was smart, for a drunkard, and grumbled as he moved on towards the fire in the middle of the camp. He took the hint, loud and clear.

Micah – the dumb bastard – sneered and barked at her.

“Oh, little miss _high and mighty_ over here thinks she’s able to boss us around.”

“I don’t think, I _know_.” She huffs, leaning back in her chair to avoid his stink. “Do you ever bathe?” her nose scrunches in disgust as she shoos him away.

“You think Dutch will protect ya from me?” she takes that as a threat, pushing herself up and knocking her chair over as she makes long strides. She in his face by the fourth stride; their chests bumping harshly and her hand roughly pushing against his chest.

Everyone was looking at them at this point, all of them just as unsure of what to do as the next person.

The two blood thirsty killers of the gang were at each other throats, what was someone supposed to do?

While Micah was nothing but unchecked rage; Blair’s anger was calculated and swift.

Blair flicked ash on his boot while pushing him back; her chest still bumping against his with a snarl. Smoke curled out of her mouth before she blew it in his face.

“When are you gonna _learn_ , Micah?” she snaps, taking a step forward for every one of his steps back.

He growls, “When you gonna know your _place_?”

“When I’m in the _ground_.”

It all happened in an instant, and it was a terrible one.

Micah swung, slow and wide and sloppy, and he wasn’t even able to land a hit on her because her punch was guided through her center line with a sense of precision and care.

She nailed him in the throat, then followed up with a punch in the stomach and his body fell like a damn tree.

He stumbled back into Pearson’s wagon with a gurgling sound that left his throat. He gasped and choked on the air as he tried to fill his lungs. The noises he made were grotesque, loud and out there as he tried to catch his bearings once more.

“If karma doesn’t kill you, I fucking will.” She throws the butt of her cigarette at his face as he still tries to recover from the two punches.

She saunters off, letting a devilish smirk grace her lips as she heard the drunken laughter of Bill and the snide comments that were thrown Micah’s way.

Arthur watches her as she leaves, squinting at her as she mounts her mare and rides off, leaving a red cloud of dust in her wake.

.-.-.

_She had gotten in trouble at school._

_For punching a boy who grabbed at her hair, thinking it was funny to do so._

_They were young – barely seven years old – but that was no way to treat someone._

_So, Blair had pushed him with her small hands. The boy was caught off guard though, and he fell harshly on the ground._

_She had found a thrill in watching him cry in the sandbox, and for such a small child, she sure was filled with a whole lot of rage._

_She had hit him, flailing her arms around and landing sloppy hits._

_Teachers had dragged her away from the boy, who was sobbing and screaming like the world was ending. And in some cases, it did, because he got pulled from the school and put into homeschooling because of how traumatic it was._

_So, here she was, sitting in the chair and making herself small as she and the principle waited for her parents._

_Her mother was never shocked by Blair’s violent nature, but she was always disappointed when she walked in slowly to see the scowls on her tiny face._

_Her father – no matter how composed he can be at times – bursts into the room. He tries to scold and discipline his child, he tries to reason with the principle. He tries way too hard, and in the end, he gets what he wants._

_The drive home was filled in silence._

_But the talk at home was filled with blood curdling cries._

.-.-.

_Summer of 1899, the Texas/Oklahoma Border_

“The plan should be simple enough.” She’s blunt about it, and from the way everyone looked at her with this blank look in their eyes, she was _too_ blunt.

Dutch sighed, licking his lips to say something, but Blair cut him off with an annoyed groan.

“I’m _not_ explaining it again.” She points to the table with the map and coins littered all over it. Her arms are crossed and her cigarette sat limply between her fingers. “It is _right there_ , and I explained _everything_ as slowly as possible.”

“Miss Blair –,”

“ _No._ ” Dutch sighed, once more while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We are but simple men, Miss Blair.”

“No, you are but _stupid_ men, Dutch.”

“Just –,” there was a loud tension in his voice, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Just, once more.” Blair sighed.

“Fine.”

.-.-.

If you were an enemy walking past the bushes, yawning loudly to show the boredom in your body, you would have never seen any of the Van Der Linde gang hiding deep within the brush.

_“First thing’s first, making sure we can get in without being seen.”_

A pair of blue eyes was the only thing one could see as her body and hair was covered in dark mud. Charles was crouched next to her, and all she did was chirp like a bird – for the others who were on the opposite side of the area – then motion for Charles to follow.

She walked slowly, cautious of every step she makes as she sneaks up behind the Russian man who was yawning before, and slitting his throat.

“ _Second, is getting in. We need to be quiet but we need to be quick. The first thing those boys will do if they see any of us is ring the alarms and they will pop out like fucking roaches.”_

Dutch and Arthur made it over to the cave entrance before anyone else did, leaving a path of blood and death in their wake.

Blair and Charles were next to meet them, then John and Micah, then Bill and Lenny.

“Is everyone one clear?”

“I believe so.” Dutch looked over at everyone with Blair, and they both got nods of approval.

“Once we go in, we stay in until they’re all dead.”

_“Third, is finding the money. Now these caves are a maze, and without a map or a good sense of direction, you will get lost. Dutch and Arthur will be with me and Charles. John will take the others.”_

She pressed her back to the corner of carved out hallway, telling the others to stop in the process.

“Two of them. Charles.” He grunts, and waits for her to give the signal.

The two Russians were drinking, rifles in their hands and laughter in their throats, and the completely passed the corner without a second look.

That left them open.

Blair and Charles killed them – Charles putting one in a choke hold, Blair sticking a knife in his neck.

The moved on; on her commands, and they (especially Blair) were thankful they didn’t have Micah with them.

Poor John, though. Having to deal with the noisy bastard.

_“Since John has been in there, he should know the basic lay out. Go to the main room we were in with Afanasi, and meet us there. Like I said, since half of his men are out on a job, their ranks will be thinned. This will be our_ only _chance to take the money and go.”_

Blood dripped from her hands, and it was smeared over her cheek – mixing with the dried, cracking mud – as she came up on John and his group in the main room.

“How did it go?” her voice was quiet; reducing the echo in the cave. John merely nodded, pointing over to Bill who seemed to have had the scare of his life.

“One of them jumped Bill, but we got all of the ones we passed.”

_“From there, it needs to be only a few. John, Arthur, and I will go in and clear the room that holds the money. The rest of you will provide back up if there just happens to be a firefight.”_

Her face is cleaned off, but her hair was still slicked back and matted with clumps of mud. She didn’t mind though, she was only going to put a knife in their throats.

_“Is there going to be a firefight?”_

She looks over at John and Arthur, her expression filled with a lack of emotion.

_“Afanasi isn’t going to leave that money without putting a bullet in anyone. The moment that gunshot rings out, be prepared for the ones that were hidden to come in and investigate.”_

“We’re ready when you are.” She nods, checking her Mauser and cleaning her knife of any blood.

_“This man has_ thousands _saved up from everything that he’s done. Once he’s dead, that money is ours.”_

“You two will stay hidden while I walk in to talk to him. Keep an eye out for _any_ passing guard because you’ll be in the open.” She throws them extra cartridges for their guns. “Remember, keep an eye on each other and come into the room once you hear the gunshots.”

The moved on, Dutch nodding towards Blair as she walked down the hall with a confidence that caused the two men feel small.

“Stay here, and wait for the signal.” Arthur wanted to protest, starting to wonder if he could trust her when she had brought them into the middle of a cave, meeting the person they were stealing from _by herself_.

He started to wonder if Micah was right about trusting her. He remembered back to the small words that were shared with Dutch and him and Hosea.

But, he stood there with his back pressed along the cool rock wall, and waited like he was told.

If Dutch trusted her, then so would he.

It just didn’t mean that he liked her.

Blair held her head high as she walked into the room. It was extravagant, to say the least, a gorgeous, wooden bedframe with a bed covered in furs and some kind of canopy hanging down to cover it.

She walked in, and she saw Afanasi first – sitting in a chair and watching the fireplace blaze. There were quiet words being said, and as she stalked closer, dipping her head down to look around the corner.

She growled.

Kazimir Petrov – his brother – stood there with a glass of vodka in his hands.

“ _It looks like you have a guest, Brother._ ” Her snarls were kept at bay, but her scowl and glare were not.

“ _Ah! My Lion!_ ” he notices the blood on her hands, no doubt, but ignores it as he guides her over to his bed.

This was dangerous; in her mind, this was asking – _begging_ – for death.

“ _You’ve met my brother, Kazimir, yes?_ ”

“ _I’ve heard of him in the papers._ ”

Kazimir was a diplomatic envoy for Russian, but he always seemed to have his hands in the terrible mixing pot that those called America.

_He_ was probably the reason why Afanasi was able to get so much money from the government.

“ _It’s nice to meet you, Little Lion._ ” He tried to grab her hand; to place a kiss on it, but she pulls away from them both and puts distance between them.

“ _I’m here on other business. Nothing personal._ ” She pulls her gun out.

And puts a bullet in Afanasi’s head.

Arthur and John run in at this point, but Kazimir sprints past them as Blair starts to shoot at him.

“Leave him, Blair! Let’s get the money, and go!”

Gunshots and yells rang and echoed through the cave, and her ears started to ring at the rounds as the boys started to tear the room apart.

“It’s under the bed.” She listens to them push the bed, the scraping making her headache worse and the ringing in her ears unbearable.

“Sweet _Jesus_ …” John lets out a low whistle as Arthur starts to through the thick rolls of cash into the saddle bag.

It took them a minute, packing up all that money into bags that wouldn’t fit it all. The two outlaws had to stuff the money into their own bags just to get everything before they were able to leave with Blair in tow.

She lingered – a moment too long to say the least – staring at Afanasi dead body with a bullet hole in his head.

She sighs, lights a cigarette, and moves on as a small amount of guilt bubbles in her stomach. She pushes it down, and away from her head and tries her best to keep it in the pit of her stomach.

There’s no guilt in trying to stay alive.

She covers the back of the two, calling out all clears like she did in boot camp.

Her heart felt slow, but her mind moved fast. A man came around the corner, and she shot at him before the others even saw him.

But a second man came out behind him, threw a knife straight at Arthur.

“Art!” she pulled him down, and he landed hard on his ass as the knife hit her in the back of the shoulder. Pain blooms and bursts like a bomb as her yell of pain was pure hell fire and her grunts of annoyance as she pulled the knife from her shoulder.

She stood over him, a haunting gleam in her eyes and a throwing knife in her palm. He squinted, wondering if he could see the halo of a saving grace, or the horns of a demon.

In the end, he found both.

She threw the knife with grace, and the man crumpled as blood spurted from his skull.

“ _Art_?”

“Get _up_ , will ya.” She pulls him up by his forearm, then grabs the money bag to shove back in his arms. “We need to _go. Now._ ”

She continues to cover their six, blood seeping down her back and dripped off her fingers.

They were in the clearing, and now the rest of the gang is with them.

The gunfire starts to die out, and those who are still alive either run or stay to accept their fate.

“We need to move.” Blair calls out, as Micah run ahead of them all to kill the men who are running away. “Leave them! We gotta _go_!”

It doesn’t take them long to mount up and ride out. The cold night nearly ending as the sun starts to rise up in the west and give them the glorious sight of morning dew and fog.

Gunshots and yells continue to ring for miles, until they died down with the raining bullets and thunderous hooves.

“We did it boys!” Dutch called out as he slowed his horse to a trot; the others following suit. He did a head count.

_Arthur, John, Micah, Lenny, Bill, Charles, Bl –._

“Where’s Miss Olsen.”

.-.-.

Dark.

Cold.

Damp.

Her head was pounding and her leg was aching. Blood seemed to seep and drip from her hair, from her nose, from her arm.

Hell, from anywhere at this point, she was losing feeling.

She gurgled, then coughed only to spit up blood and phlegm.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” She looked up and over her shoulder, her senses finally hitting her like a _fucking_ freight train.

She’s tied up with chains, her stomach facing the cold wall with a dribbling waterfall wetting her body. Her knees dug into the ground harshly, and no amount of shifting fixed the discomfort that came with it.

Her ankle felt sore – maybe sprained or broken – and the blood had coagulated and dried and stuck and stained her button up shirt.

She gritted her teeth, snarling and growling at the man she could barely see.

The man had gripped her hair and pulled her head back, having her look up at those dark green eyes and in that moment she knew who it was.

“Kazimir.” She sneered, baring her teeth like a rabid dog.

He pulled her hair harshly, and she hisses.

“You killed my brother.”

“Yeah, I did.” She seethes through her teeth, her nose scrunching in a snarl. “And I’ll kill you next.” Kazimir hums, a snarl of a smile gracing his chapped lips in the morning glow.

“We’ll see about that.”

The last thing she saw was his snarl of a smile, and the pain in her face from Kazimir slamming it against the rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have anything to say other than thank you for the love you guys!   
> Your comments give me so much life and the kudos are so nice to see in my emails.  
> Feel free to hit me up on tumblr! or leave me some fun comments down below and I'll always answer you!  
> Much love!


	8. Blessed Be Her Peacekeepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little break because I was tired and trying to shift the plot around a little for the chapter names I have lined up, but this chapter took me longer than I thought it would. I hope you like it, because I did my best.

Raw wrists and a bloody nose was a great way to start the night.

So were dead bodies and blood soaked mud.

She didn’t remember how she got out of her chains, or of the pain that seared deep into her back, or how she pressed her hands so tight around a man’s throat that his eyes bulged and his face turns blue.

But she does remember walking into the moonlit valley, covered in blood and grime and mud, enjoying the way fog would rise and fade up, up, up past the tree line.

She inhaled deep, her shoulders dropping with a hoarse sigh as she leaning against a tree to keep off her bad ankle.

“You look troubled, darlin’.” She looked over, a man slow strides over to her with her mare’s reins in hand. She’s bleary eyed and exhausted but she still snarls at the man who comes over to her.

“Sinclair.” Her voice was monotone, he offered a cigarette and a single match and she took it.

“You should head home, they’ll be getting restless soon.”

“You and I both know that this _isn’t_ my home.”

“And yet, even though you have a way out, you never take it.” There was a silence that overtook her body, her mind, and her soul. Her breaths were deep, giving way to a belly ache she only now realized. Sinclair placed a coat over her shoulders, knowing full well she was trying to hide the shivers that left her body.

“And yet, I stay.”

“I will send you letters in Colorado. Get home, Sweetpea.” She turns to snap at him, to blow smoke in his face but when she turned around with blood still seeping through her clothes and dripping down her temples.

She found nothing, only slight wisps of blue thread were left behind.

“You are one _sneaky_ bastard…”

.-.-.

_Her fly home was terrible, even if she was casted up and ready to go home._

_The only thing that made it hard for her was that she was only so many feet away from Brandon’s coffin, with a flag hung gracefully over the high polish wood._

_She refused to cry, absolutely refused to shed a tear even if it was for the man she loved so truly._

_So impurely._

_The flight was long and grueling and – sweet Jesus everything in this fucking jet was a mess of gear and sweat and exhaustion._

_She can’t remember how long it took for them to get back to California, but all she knew was that she was wheeled out in a wheelchair, right behind Brandon’s coffin and right in front of her fellow brothers in arms._

_They sang a cadence, soft and somber and slow, with their heads held high and their voices strong._

_After all, the Marine Corps motto is ‘Do or Die’._

.-.-.

She couldn’t remember what she heard first, Tilly’s yells or the way that men ran to her aid at the edge of camp.

“Who’s there!?” Charles calls out, and she can hear the way he cocks his sawed off shotgun, and the way his voice gives out like thunder.

“Blair?” Tilly called out, running up to the trotting mare.

The adrenaline that coursed through her body during her rampage out from the cave had subsided and diminished within her blood, leaving her slumping over the horn of her saddle with gritting teeth and seething pain. She never noticed the blood that had crusted over and coagulated on her back, making it hard to move without her coat pulling scabs and crust off.

“Ms. Grimshaw!” Her hearing was muffled, her back was on _fire_ , she couldn’t see straight, but she knew there were bodies around her, ones with curious but fearful eyes.

What had happened to her? She can’t remember anything, her ears were ringing, her body shook harshly – from the pain and who knows what else – as someone pulled her off the saddle with a gentle ease that no man in this group could have had.

She hissed, loud and sharp, as she was placed on the dirt ground on her side.

“I’m gonna take this coat off, alright?” a woman’s voice – Ms. Grimshaw, maybe… or Abigail’s… - soothed her worries for a split second until the jacket was removed along with the blood that had dried to it.

Her gasps and groans of pain were kept deep as she bit her lip, but tears still left the corners of her eyes with a silence that only she knew of.

“Karen, Mary-Beth. Get a bath started. Arthur, Bill, can you carry her to her tent. _Gently_.”

Everything was a daze, as she was rolled onto her back with dirt sticking to her – whether it was from blood or sweat or tears – and her coat left behind by her mare.

“Yer one helluva woman, Ms. Olson.”

She couldn’t tell if it was Arthur or Brandon who soothed her, but she gurgled a response as the two carried her to her cot.

“Place her on her belly, quickly.” Ms. Grimshaw’s voice is sharp, but had that sense of calmness that comes with being the mother hen of the gang. She’s quick to cut the shirt from her chest, letting out a little ‘ _oh_ ’ when she noticed that the only thing she wore was a black, lacey bra.

Blair hissed when the boys lifted her up and flipped her over, and she inhaled sharply at the way her blood seemed to drip and roll on the dry earth. It was then – with wide eyes and an anger that seemed to smolder in them all – that they got a good look at what had happened to her.

Long, jagged lines crossed over her back – only five, but they were still puckered red and slightly swollen as blood and puss seemed to dribble and seep out.

Ms. Grimshaw’s lips were pressed into a thing line as she called for the girls – did she hear Tilly’s name get called as she continued to remove the clothes that she had torn from her body – while Arthur and Bill stayed silently still; waiting for Ms. Grimshaw to snap and send them away.

“I’m going to clean these wounds, Miss Olsen.” Blair only let out a pain grunt as she braced herself for the terrible sting that the liquor will bring.

Arthur starts to move away, knowing full well what was to come next. He didn’t want to watch her bite her tongue and shake from the pain, but she grabbed at his arm with twitchy, weak fingers with a slight pain filled moan.

“Don’t…” her voice was quiet and strained, as she begged. This woman – who was the devil incarnate – begged him to stay, “You might need to hold me down…”

Who was he to tell her no?

He watched as she pressed her head into her pillow, and noticed the sweat that started to pill and slip down her skin and how it caused the tiny hairs – the ones closest to the nape of her neck – stuck in thin strips.

He pressed his palms into her biceps and she reached and held onto his forearms harshly. Arthur noticed how she took quick, little breathes before Ms. Grimshaw poured a whole bottle of liquor over her wounds.

Blair _roared_ , and he knew that it echoed through the mesa and valley below. She squired harshly under his grip, and he put more weight into his arms to hold her down. Bill struggled to keep her legs from kicking too much, but nearing the end of the bottle, Blair’s body slumped and melted into the cot under her.

Her arms dropped, and he was sure that she had passed out from the pain.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Mr. Williamson. You two can leave now, we’ll take care of her from here.”

Bill was out of the tent within seconds of it being said, but Arthur lingered a little once he noticed the moon shaped marks on his forearms from the imprints that her nails left.

“Mr. Morgan. Please, we need to wash her.”

“Right, sorry…”

He walked out from the tent, noticing the way everyone seemed to look at him with curious eyes and worried whispers.

“How is she?” it was Dutch to ask the question that lingered in the air as Abigail and Tilly filled into the tent with buckets filled with freshly boiled water. When Dutch’s eyes darted down to Arthur button up shirt, covered in blood, he seemed to have gotten his answer.

“She’s got a lot a fight in her, that’s fer sure.” Her lights cigarette, hoping it’ll calm the hairs that were raised up on his neck. “She’ll make it, no doubt ‘bout it.”

.-.-.

Blair felt floaty, with fluttering eyes and sore muscles, she looked around with bleary eyes. A man – or really a black blob – sat in the corner of her tent, leaning back in the creaky wooden chair with a journal in his lap.

“Brandon?” her voice was but a whimper, and she cleared her throat harshly in hopes to speak louder.

“Who?” she blinked, the drawl bringing her out of her fantasies. Her good hand rubbed at her eyes, sniffling and coughing before looking up and seeing Arthur.

And Brandon.

“Brandon…” he was bloodied, from head to toe, in nothing but the cami’s that he wore out before he died. Ribs stuck out from the shredded clothes and his jaw hung awkwardly from what little flesh held it together.

A groan left his lips, but she didn’t stay long enough to see what he said.

Blair stumbled and scrambled out from her tent; clambering on her hands and knees as she limply ran with her sprained ankle and injured back. She pushed herself, her eyes wide and her body in a fight or flight response that she hadn’t felt since her last deployment.

Sobs left her throat, scratching like sandpaper as she inhaled shallow and sharp with every step on her bad leg. She heard someone yelling, but she was too preoccupied with getting away from whatever stared down into her soul.

She had done too much wrong, nothing she did now would fix that.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” she muttered to herself over and over, and she told herself if she made it out of this alive, she would do as many Hail Mary’s or All Fathers or _whatever_ just to clean her hands of the blood she spilt.

“Blair!” she had hit the forest entrance not too long ago, but now she was finally exiting the forest and hitting a cliff's edge that dropped far down into a narrow canyon. “Blair, stop!”

She only stopped because of the cliff, and now she had nowhere else to go.

Arthur came to a skidding halt – it’s no surprise that he was the first one to go after her, he was in her tent on his journal – his hands held up to show that he was no threat, but behind him was the bloody body of Brandon.

Their lips moved as if they were one, as Arthur took one step at a time towards her, “It’s alright, darlin’.” He shushed her like someone would a wild horse, with soft noises and slow, steady movements. Brandon’s body limped heavily, spilling blood from his gut with every limping stumble of his legs.

She felt herself move backwards, her heels hanging dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Arthur shook his head, “No, no, no.” her snarls were weak as tears and snot started to drip and dribble. “Don’t move, Miss Blair.”

There was a rustling of the bushes behind Arthur, only to witness Charles and John showing themselves slowly at the sight Blair on the edge of the cliff.

Her whimpers and groans felt dry, and she started to feel blood seep through the clothes she was wearing, but she was too proud to admit defeat.

“I can’t. I’ve seen too much, please…” her bottom lip quiver, and she goes to move but as she does, so does Arthur. “Brandon, _please_.”

“Don’t. Move.” His voice was stern, and she visibly flinched at the bite in his words.

She does as she’s told – for once in this past life – as Arthur walked forward slowly with his hands extended out in a passive manner only to hold a hand out to her once he was close to Blair.

Her eyes started to grow heavy, and when she looked back behind Arthur, she didn’t find the familiar man with the hazel eyes.

No…

She was too focused on the ocean blues in front of her.

“C’mon, Darlin.”

She feels floaty, taking his hand with twitchy fingers and fluttering eyes, and nearly collapsing in his arms in the process.

Ms. Grimshaw was the next person to show up, shooing Charles and John away and having Arthur help her bring Blair back to her bed.

He noticed that she slept deeper that night, not moving a muscle as Congo made himself comfortable at the foot of her cot – right between her legs.

For a woman with such a power behind her voice and fists, he couldn’t believe the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

.-.-.

The camp was quiet after the events of today, and only whispers roamed the air in hopes to keep anyone from listening.

Four of them sat at the poker table, though Arthur didn’t know why Micah had to join them on this talk.

“She’s a danger, Dutch.” Micah leaned in deep over the table, spilling what little whiskey Arthur had in his glass. “Who’s to say that they simply sent her back so they could _follow_ her?”

“Micah –,” Arthur growled, knowing full well this was just his way of getting into Dutch’s head, but Hosea held up his hand.

“Did you see the way she came back to us, Micah? She was put through something terrible, and you have the gall to question her when she’s in her tent resting?”

“Well, why don’t we just go and wake her and see if she’ll try and jump off a cliff again.”

“Enough, all of you!” Dutch finally spoke up, slamming his glass down with an irritated huff. “She has done nothing wrong in her efforts to come back to us. If anything, that just shows us where her loyalties lie.”

“Did you see how she came back? Covered in blood?” Micah tries to continue, he tries too damn hard to get Dutch to be on his side but it doesn’t work.

“Enough, Micah. This conversation is over until she wakes up and can explain just what the hell happened.”

All Arthur could do was let a small smirk grace his lips at the defeated look Micah had as he stormed off.

.-.-.

Five days came and went.

Blair hadn’t woken up within those five days, at least not fully where she comprehended what was happening around her. Ms. Grimshaw would take care of her, along with Abigail and Tilly, trying to get her to eat what she could handle and constantly changing the bandages on her wounds.

From what Abigail told Arthur, the inflammation had gone down, and the wounds were healing but they would scar harshly.

He knows though, that she wouldn’t mind the scars on her body.

On the sixth day, everyone seemed somber as the stirring from her tent was still nonexistent. If she didn’t wake up soon, she might not wake up at all.

It was quiet around the pot of stew that sat over the smoldering fire, Arthur had noticed. Abigail stood around it with a tin cup of coffee in her hand and Sadie sat down by the fire with a bowl of steaming stew in her hands.

“Why does everyone look so fuckin’ sad?” Blair came up to the right of Arthur, her left arm in a sling and a makeshift crutch (courtesy of Reverend Swanson) shoved awkwardly under her right arm. The bags under her eyes were enough to say that she may have slept but she never truly rested.

“Blair, you shouldn’t be up!” she let a groan fall past her lips as she slowly sat down by the fire.

“I’m fine, Abigail. Just sore at this point.” She sloppily pours herself a cup of coffee, “and slightly broken.”

“Dutch’ll wanna talk to ya.” Arthur chimed in, finishing off his cup of coffee.

“I figured…”

She stayed by the fire, not wanting to struggle with getting up and using a crutch that was too short for her to comfortably use. Her body ached, and her back was the most painful of them all.

She didn’t imagine that she would have made it out of that hell hole of a place with her life, but here she was, in the safety of the camp while sitting by the fire that left the food going at a simmer.

She adjusted her sweater, fixing the turtle neck and adjusting her straps on her overalls. The bottoms of her feet were covered in the red dirt, and as she dusted them off with her good hand, the red dirt stuck to her hands and stayed under her fingernails.

“Miss Olsen!” she looked over at Dutch as he walked over to her with long strides, “How are you feeling?”

“Like absolute horse shit.” She’s slouching over her thighs, sipping her coffee slowly. “I’m assuming you wanna talk, hm?”

“Only when you’re ready.”

“Help me up, and I’ll talk.”

.-.-.

_“You ever heard of the Russian Great Knout?”_

_The night had barely settled when Kazimir walked into the secluded area she was kept in. She was trying to sleep, her forehead settled against the cool wall and even though her arms ached and her knees burned, she still tried to ignore Kazimir._

_“I’m assuming you’re going to tell me?” she sighed, looking over her shoulder with a raised brow. She sees the Knout at this point, with the barbs that shined in the dull, setting sun._

_“They were a form of corporal punishment, and anything more than twenty blows could break your spine and kill you in the long run.” She groaned out or boredom, and leaned her forehead back on the wall. “This one is more… of a custom Knout, with the barbs at the end instead of the rings, but I think it’ll have the same effect.”_

_“Charming…” she growled when he gripped her hair from the scalp and pulled her back only to slam her back into the wall. Her nose started to bleed again._

_A knife glided down her back, ripping her button up and grazing against her spine softly._

_“You’re quite the pretty one.” He yanked her hair, and her eyes bore holes in his skull, “Such a shame I gotta punish you.”_

_The barbs stuck into her back, and Kazimir pulled them down and out when they got stuck within the soft flesh of her back. She did her best to hide her yells and screams of pain but by the fifth lash, she was passed out with her body leaning harshly against the wall._

_She woke up from a few hours later when sun was just starting to fall below the horizon, and all she could do was groan with a dry tongue and look around with bleary eyes._

_With every shift and twitch, the blood that dried and caked on her back pulled all too painfully. Her restrains seemed all too loose as she held onto the rope to pull herself up and sit up to see._

_The pain was unbearable, with every breath she took, every yawn or cough, her back ached and burned but she had to keep moving forward._

_Her pain seemed to block the memories of her wrapping her hands around a man’s throat or when she slit a man’s throat with nothing but a sharp shard of glass._

_She barely remembers how she got back to camp – back home – but she does remember the blue eyes that looked oh so softly at her and how warm his palms were on her biceps._

_She won’t say it out loud, but she wouldn’t mind his hands on her again._

.-.-.

She sat there, over the edge of the mesa with her eyes cast down over the edge when Arthur slowly walks his way over.

Dutch told him she would be there – with how their conversation went on and how she did her best to retell the events that took place – Arthur simply assumed that she might have needed some space that wasn’t in her tent laying on an uncomfortable cot.

His steps were soft, as if he was taming a wild horse and in any moment she would jump off, snap at him, or kill him.

She did neither, as he placed himself closely to her side, his arm grazing hers.

"Cat got your tongue?" he tries to joke, only because he wants to see a smile, or a sneer or really anything other than the look of pain and desperation that brought tension to her eyes and creased her forehead.

She said nothing.

She didn't even look up at him as her lip trembled only to be reined in by a simple nip of her teeth.

"I didn't – I just – I only wanted –," words seem to stick to the back of her throat; the roof of her mouth, and she could only sigh and look up at the setting sun. "I'm sorry, and I know that words mean nothing without an action to prove it but all I can offer are words."

She's in pain - Arthur can see it in the way her nose scrunched, and how her bottom lip quivers and shakes. He knows what she's feeling, because he feels too.

"Ya scared the shit out of us, darlin'. I thought – We thought you was gonna jump."

"Almost did..." Her arm brushes up against his - a silent form of appreciation to the slight amount of affection and care she was given. “I never had a chance to be soft. I was always bloody knuckles and black eyes. I wanted people to be afraid of me."

He laughs, low and guttural. "Oh, I ain't afraid of you."

"Thank God for that." her laughs like angels kisses, and he feels something twist on his belly as he feels his mind try and reach for more of that heavenly sound.

She bumps his shoulder with hers softly, a genuine smile gracing her lips.

A silent thank you, for saving her life.

The thunder of hooves pulled them out of the quiet moment, and when they turned and saw John ride up with Charles behind him and someone hogtied on his horse.

From the dark hair that hung from the head of the man on the back of the horse, Blair could only grit her teeth and stumble while getting up on her crutch.

“John _fucking_ Marston, you fucking _moron_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have a really weird question: if you were to assign an actor/IRL face to Blair, who would it be? I based her off of Charlize Theron when she was playing her role in Atomic Blonde, but I'm curious what you guys think. Put it in the comments below and I'll definitely take a look!


	9. That Idiot, John Fucking Marston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took me longer than i thought it would.  
> Sorry if it feels weird, I was too sober for it tbh.

When she woke up that morning – groggy and sore and out of breath – she was determined to be healthier. She was going to quit smoking, or she thinks she would quit and maybe eat more fruit and just all in all, _take care of herself_.

But then John came back, donning a passed out person on the back of his liver chestnut like some prized trophy elk.

So, now she’s on her third cigarette while everyone is trying to sooth her worries and snarls, but she was still snappy; quick.

“Don’t fucking touch me unless you want to lose your hand.” Dutch seemed disgruntled, but he threw his arms down in exasperation.

“You need to sit down and explain, Miss Olsen. You are going to hurt yourself.” She paces as well as someone who had one arm put in a cloth sling, and a crutch sitting uncomfortably under her armpit.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She swings her crutch at Dutch’s shins, before having to catch herself from falling. “And I’m not gonna sit down.”

“At least tell us why yer losin’ your mind?” Arthur comes up from behind her, slightly urging her to sit down only to stop when she hits him in the shins with her crutch.

“Because that man – the man on the back of Johns _fucking_ horse – is a diplomatic envoy for Russia.”

There was a deadly thick silence that fell over them as she pointed to the man who was tried up next to the O’Driscoll – Kieran, if she was being nice. Eyes fell onto John who seemed to shrink from the amount of contact that he was being forced into.

“What exactly is a diplomatic envoy?” John seemed confused – frankly, the only people who _weren’t_ confused were Dutch and Hosea – and he tilted his head before looking at the unusual Russian.

“I means, that money – that fucking _blood_ money – was only given to his brother because of _him_ ,” She pointed at Kazimir with a snarl. “That man has his hands in the mixing pot that is America. _He_ is how Afanasi got so much fucking _money_. And _you_ brought a damn demon into this camp.”

She’s seeing red at this point, stumbling harshly over her crutch as she wobbles over to John to jab a finger in his chest.

“Fix. It. _Now_.” He gaps like a fish, unsure of what to do at this point.

“Blair –,” she whips around, scowling at Arthur’s soft eyes. A part of her heart simple flutters at how deep his blue eyes seemed to go, and all she could do was look away and grumble. “Sit down, yer gonna fall.”

She huffs heavily, and throws herself into the chair by the rounded table. “He _will_ kill us all.” She throws her crutch onto the floor and runs her good hand over her face. “We need to get rid of him in a way that it won’t point to us.”

“And how do we do that when he’s in our camp?” Micah questions – out of nowhere, might she add – a bowl of stew in his hands. She snarls at him, only because her own irritation was getting to her and the sight of his ugly handlebar mustache pissed her off even more.

“What about that O’Driscoll?” John pipes in, pointing over to Kieran who has been tied up to the tree for almost a few weeks now.

“What _about_ the O’Driscoll?” Micah chided, shoving food into his mouth. He made it sound like a stupid idea, but Blair started to think.

“O’Driscoll…”

.-.-.

_She placed the paper in front of her commanding officer, her back straight and her eyes looking forward._

_“You’re not reenlisting?” he questions, letting an exhausted sigh leave his lips._

_“After what happened… I can’t stand to be around Sticks, or my company and I really don’t want to go anywhere else, Sir.” He motions for her to sit, and she follows his orders with nervous fingers picking at her calloused knuckles._

_“What do you plan on doing?”_

_“I’m going to join the FBI. Or CHP.” She shrugs her shoulders, “I haven’t really thought much about going back to the civilian world, but I know I don’t want to work a civilian job.”_

_“You can always go down to Twentynine Palms, work with them?”_

_“Thank you sir, but I want to be up north.” She pulls on a callous and she winces. “Sacramento.” He sighs once more, looking over the paper she handed him._

_“Well, Staff Sergeant. You have a letter of recommendation from me if you need it.”_

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_“Do me proud.” She smiles at him, shaking his hand firm and steady._

_“I will.”_

.-.-.

It’s been two weeks since they brought Kazimir into their camp, and Blair was finally able to hobble around without a crutch. Her ankle was still sore, but she can stand on it for longer than two seconds.

Ms. Grimshaw still refused to let her play with the big dogs though, as Dutch planned a way to rid themselves of the diplomatic envoy. Kieran sat in front of them, tied to a chair with Bill holding a pair of gelding tongs way too close to his exposed crotch.

Blair merely groaned from the boredom that doing laundry brought to her. Ms. Grimshaw stated – as she covered her back with a topical that seemed to sting and tingle every time she put it on – that the wounds on her back weren’t healed enough for her to ride around, before she shoved her towards the other girls to do laundry.

Her leg twitched as she scrubbed the dirt and blood against the washboard.

When – if she gets back to her time period, she’s never going to take her washer and dryer for granted again.

“I’ve never seen these clothes so clean.” Karen chuckles, as she takes the basket of wrung out clothes from Blair.

“It’s from years and years of doing it.” She chuckles as she pulls out a soaked shirt to check for any other stains. “That, and if you have the right materials, you can get something real clean.” She points to the glass jar full of baking soda and a cup of vinegar. “It’s basic, but it’s good enough.”

She continues to scrub harshly, trying to get the reddish brown stains from the pristine white shirt. She heard the rustling of trees as the wind blew past, and for the first time in a long time, she felt calm as she scrubbed.

And it stayed like that for a few hours as the sun started to fall down past the horizon and the rustling of trees turn to the loud chirps of cicadas, and the clinking of chain. Her eyes didn’t react as fast as she thought they wound when she saw a blur of grey in her peripheral and a scream of terror from Abigail.

“Jack!” she looked over at Kazimir holding a sharp shard of something to the young boys’ neck, and she froze from a fear she hadn’t felt in a long time. There were sobs falling from the boys’ throat, and the man had more than enough guns pointed at him.

“One wrong move, and the boy dies!” Kazimir looked frantic, almost panicked by the fact that he had guns and glares pointed at him.

Blair took the moment of distraction to sneak behind the tents, and to where the wide tree that once held the two enemies – the O’Driscoll and the Petrov.

She didn’t have any of her weapons, but they wouldn’t be needed. He needed to suffer, and for that to happen, she would have to be patient and she could be patient enough to watch him burn.

There was no movement from either party, but Jack’s wails and Abigail’s sobs were the only thing that kept the blood in her ears from taking over along with the adrenaline in her body.

Blair’s right behind him now, standing flush against the tree. Everyone sees her, they know she’s there, but they weren’t expecting her to push him. Kazimir drops both the child – who blots to his mother the instant his tiny feet touch the ground – and the sharp rock that cut up his hand.

His snarls showed off his yellowed teeth, and she can only smile devilishly as he did so.

She snatches his shoulder and his forearm before throwing her legs up and around his chest and the back of his head. Her jaw clenches and her tongue is pressed to the roof of her mouth as they fall; both on their back but his arm is caught between her thighs and she’s got his hand twisted awkwardly.

Putting a man in an arm bar was never hard; hell she’s done so many in her day with her boys out of boredom. She pulled hard, hearing how Kazimir yelled from the pain that shot from his forearm, up his bicep and to his shoulder until –

_POP!_

He screams, and she lets go as he withers in pain. Charles and Bill are to him first, dragging him back to his tree after smacking him around a bit for pulling such a _bullshit_ move.

Blair stayed on the ground, huffing and puffing with her arms and legs sprawled out haphazardly. Dutch is to her first, a hand extended out to her.

She smiles, and takes it.

“Quiet the limber one, Miss Blair.”

“One mind, any weapon...” She looks over at Abigail and Jack, and she smiles. “We need to deal with him, _now._ ”

“We think we have an idea, but we ain’t sure it’ll work.” Arthur comes up next to her, holstering his gun.

“It’ll be risky getting the O’Driscolls involved, especially so close.”

“It can’t be helped.” Dutch scratches his chin, watching her movements. “We could use another hand.”

“If Ms. Grimshaw allows it.” He chuckles.

“You need approval?” Blair throws her hands up in defense.

“I’m not scared of anything, Dutch. But that woman… She frightens me, and I like to sleep with both my eyes closed.”

“I’ll talk to her, you get ready to leave tonight.”

.-.-.

“ _This_ is a terrible idea.” She sat next to Arthur in the carriage; their horses trailing behind them and Kazimir moaning in pain in the back. Reverend Swanson had doped him up on whatever was in those large syringes of his, and she was glad that she only had to listen to his terrible moans of pain and not anything else.

“It _was_ John’s idea.”

“Remind me never to listen to John in _anything_ if the time comes.” He barks a laugh.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

There was a silence between that was comfortable and easy. The constant beat of the hooves, the rushing wind wanting to take her hat, and the fucking _moans_ coming from Kazimir.

She bangs on the ceiling of the carriage and growls, “Quit bitching about the pain, or I’ll give you something to cry about.” The Russian shut up, and she sighed.

“Ya popped his shoulder out of its socket, what do you expect?” he’s amused, she could tell by the tone of his voice and the small smirk gracing his lips.

“Some damn peace and quiet.” Her grumbles are comical when it’s paired with her slouching shoulders and her faux pout. “He’s been complaining about the pain all damn night, and since my tents right next to it, I’ve had to listen to it all night long.”

“Does the princess need her beauty sleep.” She bares her teeth in a smile. A threat mixed with amusement.

“Don’t call me princess unless you wanna lose your balls.” He chuckles, and silence fell on them once more. It was comfortable; comfortable enough to smoke a cigarette and share it between the man.

“Where you from anyways?” she takes the stick from his gloved fingers with grace, only to pout at his question.

“Why?” she’s suspicious of his intentions, and he notices the rigidness in her back.

“You show up outta nowhere, shootin’ up O’Driscolls to the point where you catch Dutch’s attention for months on end, then you just join us.” He takes the cigarette she offered back to him as she exhales deeply. “An’ then, when Dutch wants to go east, you bring up people we can rob out west.”

“Sounds like you don’t trust me.” She chuckles and it stays tight in her throat.

“After you saved Jack, I honestly would trust you with my life.”

“Well, I don’t trust you with mine.” He barks a laugh, finishing off the cigarette and throwing the butt into the dirt. She throws her hands up, almost offended that he threw the cigarette over.

“You finished it? Seriously? I barely got –,” there was a large _boom_ that happened underneath them, rattling the carriage and throwing it over to the side.

Blair _panicked._

All she could see what Brandon’s blood seeping from under the Humvee as she grabs and latches onto Arthur out of fear and survival. She pulls him as the horses scream and Kazimir hits his head on the glass window of the carriage door.

The carriage creeks as it falls to its side, before it starts to fall and roll of the hill. Blair pushes Arthur out of the driver’s seat and into the packed dirt path as she starts to fall with it. He called for her, she can hear that much, but everything else seemed to be swallowed up by her panic.

_‘You caused the crash in Afghanistan, you also caused this. It’s all your fault if they all die.’_

She found herself hyperventilating right when the carriage hit a tree and sent her flying. Gunshots and yells start to echo through the valley, but her mind was still buzzing. Her back hits a tree harshly, and a gasp then a wheeze left her lips as she huddles into a tight ball as the battle raged on above her.

Ringing ears and bleary eyes were one thing.

Struggling to get up and work a gun was another.

“Blair!” Arthur yelled at her, and she felt herself struggle to get up from against the tree. She could barely breathe and her legs were far too weak to carry her anymore. “ _Blair!_ ”

She scrambled for her gun, gasping and heaving with flared nostrils and twitchy fingers. A noise left her throat – pathetic and squeaky – as she wobbled over to the carriage.

Kazimir was dead, his head turned and twisted in an awkward position that for sure meant he was no longer among the land of the living. Bile crawled up her throat, and she gagged, looking away with a slam of the small carriage door.

Arthur was struggling with O’Driscoll’s as she struggled with her emotions, and she did her best to push them down so she could focus.

But she saw Brandon again, standing in front of her – blood and all.

She’s frozen at this point, warmth seeping from her back and she winces as she starts to move – to walk away and past the ghost of Brandon that seems to come and haunt her.

He doesn’t say anything, only watches as she looks down at the ground with her gun shaking in her hands.

By the time she reaches Arthur, he’s killed every last one of the O’Driscoll’s.

She stand there, feeling useless and unneeded, but she holsters her gun with a shaky breath and tears soaking her lashes.

“The hell was that!?” his voice booms and vibrates through her ribs and she visibly _flinches_.

Arthur stops in his tracks, noticing full well that her movements weren’t twitches.

“What in the world happened!?” Dutch comes riding up to them, agitated and covered in blood.

“They set up an ambush.” Arthur whistled for his horse, and Blair followed suit. Her hands clenched into fits she grabbed at her horses reins, trying to find something to ground herself with.

“And the Russian?”

“Dead.” Blair called out, a rasp in her voice. “The fall broke his neck, we should leave before more come along.”

She’s mounted up and trotting back towards camp before anyone could call out to her.

.-.-.

Despite leaving first, she got back to camp last.

The blood on her back had crusted up and glued itself to her button up blouse, but she doesn’t care much.

She’s numb, from the way Brandon’s eyes bored daggers of fear into her body and from the explosion that rumbled under the carriage.

She’s numb, her fingers feel cold and her body feels sluggish as her feet hang loose from the stirrups, with toes pointing down and her calves barely pressing into her mare’s sides.

She barely feels a thing as she sloppily dismounts her horse, giving her a small peppermint candy, not even wincing when the mare nips at her palms.

She can’t hear Ms. Grimshaw’s yells or hollers as she passes by people who are packing up vigorously so they can move on to the next location.

She doesn’t hear Arthur’s calls from behind her, or his footsteps on the red dirt. She doesn’t feel his hand on her shoulder – soft and caring – or comprehend that he’s even there.

Blair keeps moving, walking a straight line towards her tent with a cigarette shaking between her fingers.

She needs a moment, she knows that much as she sits down on her cot with a heavy sigh that seemed to slip into a silent sob. Her fingers tangled themselves into the rosary around her neck and she whispers the Hail Mary’s that she has gotten so used to doing from time to time.

By the time she gets up and starts packing up, she’s the last tent standing – minus Dutch’s tent. Arthur is standing by her tent, leaning against a tree with a cigarette of his own hanging from his lips.

She won’t lie to herself, with the way the setting sun hits his sun-kissed cheeks and how his brows relax when he feels like no one’s watching.

He’s _handsome_ , and she’s jealous that such beauty was given to someone so rough.

He turns around to look at her as she starts to tear down her tent; canvas first. He’s quiet when he walks over to help and she silently accepts it as they fold the canvas together and take down the large wooden dowels and planks that were left in place.

Arthur throws it all in his wagon, as she whistles for Congo and places her large, green rucksack on the back of her mare.

They were the last to leave, as Dutch’s tent was finally taken down and placed in a wagon. They trailed behind the assembly, trotting next to each other with a comfortably silence between them as Congo jumped from Blair’s lap and onto the back of Arthur’s stallion.

She chuckled, pressing her left heel into her horses and moving closer to Arthur.

She handed him a lit cigarette, with a smile.

A _genuine_ smile.

“Don’t smoke it all at once, it’s my last one.”

He smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are finally moving on! Next chapter is going to be like a travel filler  
> but it won't be a filler...  
> it'll be smut????   
> so it might take me a helluva lot longer than normal to get it out.


	10. Fine Aged Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you Lulzy for the idea of smut with a hint of angst, because I live for that. 
> 
> They fuk.
> 
> I hope you like.

They were moving on.

After a few days of healing and replenishing stock, they were _finally_ moving on.

Blair found a sense of comfort on the back of her mare as they traveled through Oklahoma and into Kansas. Javier sang his songs, with the girls humming and singing along with him.

The men rode on their horses, their hats covering the most delicate parts of the face and neck from the summer sun. It was merely them and the pure country side, and all they could do was appreciate the peace and quiet it blanketed them in.

"We're gonna stop near the next town over, get our bearings straight and some more supplies before moving on in the morning." Hosea called out to Blair, who was next to him in seconds. "Why don't you take Arthur with you and check it out. See if there's any good spots to stop and rest." She looks over her shoulder, pulling taunt on the reins and looking over at Arthur.

"Come on, Arthur. I'll get you a whiskey and some food."

They set off, a gentle canter heading northwest, playful banter and soft chuckle whisking between them. She had found herself a sense of comfort and ease whenever she was around him, especially after traveling next to him for the last few days.

The travel to the small town is easy, with flat trails and seclusion that would give the caravan of people not to far behind them an easy time.

Congo laid nervously in Blair’s lap as they kept up with their steady travels, only to jump down once it was all slowed to a slow walk.

“You think they have enough room for us?” she asks, looking around and lighting a cigarette.

“If anything, some of us can just put up some test and sleep outside. The women and Jack and have the rooms.”

Always the gentleman, that man.

.-.-.

It all started with several bottles of whiskey, sober bodies, and a game she used to play with all her fellow marines.

“It’s called ‘Never Have I Ever’ and it’s meant to get you _drunk_.” She’s passing out shot glasses that are filled to the brim with alcohol, “Basic gist is, let’s say… ‘never have I ever…’” she thinks for a moment, waving her hands around in thought, “’never have I ever shot someone’ – just as an example – and if any of you _have_ done the thing I never did, you gotta take a shot.” She settles herself in between Lenny and Bill, who both eye the shot that sat in front of them.

“It’s supposed to be fun?”

“Kinda, it’s really supposed to get you fucking shit faced to the point where you can’t remember what happened the next day.” She sighs, “ _And_ , let’s say you know someone dirty little secret, and you say it and you know that they’re lying. You can call them out on it, and that person _has_ to take a double shot, but it has to be true otherwise the person who tried to call them out has to take a double shot.” She waves her arms around, “It gets easier the drunker you get. I’ll go first.” She leans back in her chair, listening to the way it creaked underneath her, “Never have I ever been arrested.”

They all took their shot, and she laughs – low and sultry. “Alright, Lenny, you’re up.”

He hums, as he pours himself another shot before passing it around, “Never have I ever injured myself while trying to impress someone I was interested in.” he eyes Arthur, who grumbles and takes another shot.

John was next, then Sean, Arthur, Dutch, Hosea.

Then Micah, “Never have I ever slept with someone of the same sex.” He eyed Bill hard who shifted harshly under his gaze.

Blair threw a shot back, and they all stared at her, wide eyed and surprised. “Y’all act like you’re the only ones who can get a woman in bed, but let me tell you. Your guy’s game is fuckin’ weak.” She taps Bill’s foot with her, and she smirked softly.

He didn’t take a shot. She didn’t push.

This whole game went on for hours, everyone taking shot after shot and enjoying the warm hum that is left in all of them.

Soon enough, the game was abandoned and they were left to their own vices. She found Arthur and Lenny trying to outdrink each other at the bar, Dutch and Hosea were reminiscing about the past with a fine bottle of rum. John had left to see how Abigail and Jack were doing, and Micah… who the fuck knows where he went.

She had found herself sitting next to Bill, who nursed at his bottle of beer with a somber look in his eyes.

“Getting’ called out ain’t fun, is it?” she tried to make it sound like a joke, but her snide remark sounded all too aggressive to his ears.

He scowled before looking away, saying nothing.

“Can’t avoid it forever, Bill. It’s the way life is. Just don’t get killed over it, yeah?”

The boisterous noises flooded the saloon hall well into the night, and she found herself growing bored and annoyed with everything around her. She places a hand on Bills’ shoulder as she leaves, giving him a warm smirk before she waves Dutch and Hosea a goodnight and retires to her room.

.-.-.

She had rented a room above the saloon before they even started the game, let alone started drinking. It was easier that way, because at the end of the night, she could simply stumble up the stairs and into the musky room and take care of this stupid problem.

She was fully aroused, and she didn’t want to admit why.

Blair never liked the saying ‘drunk words are sober thoughts’ but it resonated within her as she throws her bag on the night stand and whistles for Congo to settle. She throws a blanket down at the foot of the bed for him, and he curls himself into a ball as if he was ready to sleep just as much as she was.

She poured another glass of alcohol; and at this point it doesn’t matter what it is because she simply throws it back and pours another.

There’s a knock on her door, as she listens to the liquid splash against the glass. Her dog is alert, and she would be too, if the alcohol that was coursing through her body didn’t stop her.

“What do you want?” the door opens, and she groans in annoyance. “You can’t just go bargin –,” her voice gets caught in her throat as Arthur walked in, closing the door with a soft click and locking it slowly.

She stands there, her glass in hand and a mischievous smirk on her face.

“You didn’t get a room at the inn?”

“Too crowded.” He nods, looking around the small room. It’s enough room for her, if anything it’s too much room for her.

So why does she feel so damn crowded, and cornered?

“You left early?” she groans in annoyance, throws the alcohol back, and walks over to him.

“Cut the shit, Arthur.” She’s pressed into him in a second, their lips slipping over each other in their drunken stupor. She’s dominate, pushing at his chest and tugging at his suspenders harshly as he guides them both to the edge of the bed.

He’s tall, with a chest that’s as wide as her shoulders and arms that are stronger than hers, but she still tries hard to be in charge.

Arthur won’t let her, though, as he pushes her harshly onto the bed. The mattress gives a little with a loud creak of the springs when her back hits it, and he finds himself growling just at the sight of her.

Half-lidded eyes, her bottom lip between her teeth, the few too many buttons that were undone before he even came in.

She really was a sight to behold.

Arthur finds himself crawling over her, his hips pressing against hers with an audible groan on his end and a small chuckle on hers. Her nails – trimmed and well taken care of – run through his hair, before they pull harshly at the strands that stood up at the nape.

He hisses, as she latches onto his collar bone, grazing teeth and rolling her hips up against him.

His hands wander, down her rib cage, down her waist, all the way to her hips before they rest and grip at her thighs.

“You’re the tall, dark stranger my mother warned me about.” She sighed against his neck as he grips her thighs a little too hard.

“Is that a bad thing?” he groans, as he busies himself with taking off her shirt.

“Do you want to find out?” she starts to work on his, slipping his suspenders off his shoulders and letting them dangle at his hips.

There’s no need for an answer, this is all wanted.

Needed, actually.

His fingers fumble with her buttons, but hers were swift with his. His shirt was pulled from his pants and pushed down from his shoulders as Arthur let out a frustrated groan and ripped her blouse. Buttons flew between them, lost within the sheets and the hardwood floor as he looked down at her, growing lost in the thin, black lace cover that held the small swell of her breasts in place.

Between her breasts – right above her sternum – laid an intricate diamond ink. Thin, black lines traced a large peony that stayed within the outline of the elongated shape and the dot work that gave detail to the delicacy of the petals caused him to hum deep in his belly.

Blair’s already working at her pair of jeans, popping the button from its latch and unzipping it swiftly. He watches as her stomach tenses, showing the definition of her muscles that lined her belly, her ribs, and her hips. Her breasts were small – barely a handful – and her waist wasn’t as defined as most women he’s seen and had like to have.

There’s a slight dip in her waist, her ribs pressing softly against her taut skin with every sharp inhale. His fingers ghost over strong muscles of her body, and she sighs, almost content with the affection and attention he gave her. Her hips jutted out as her back arched softly, and all he could do was chuckle in his drunkenness.

“We might need to put some meat on ya.”

“Oh-ho, are you gonna hand feed me?” she clicks her tongues as he pulls her pants off.

She’s clad in black – no matter what she wears – her underwear were something he’s never seen, but he could grow used to in the long run.

“Take a picture, cowboy. It’ll last longer.” He growls at her, running his calloused fingers up her stomach before pushing under the lacy bra to knead at her breasts. She’s gasping for air, sighing and chuckling low as he places kisses along her stomach and nipping at her hips.

He’s on his knees now, pulling her undergarments down, looking down at her peach fuzz cunt and soft, pink labia before throwing her thighs over his shoulder to warm his ears. Arthur presses the flat of his tongue against and through her core, and all she can do is arch her back and tangle her fingers through his hair.

His focus is harsh against her clit and she has to bite down on her tongue hard to keep her needy whimpers within her chest. He growls, his palms placed flat against her stomach to hold her down as his sucks hard on her clit before running his tongue through her wet folds.

He pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his lips to her heat and she feels herself flush red all the way from her chest stopping at the tips of her ears.

“Yer a pretty little thing.” He groans, pressing sweet nips at her inner thigh, before he moves his hands down to press a finger into her.

She chuckles, then gasps as he curls his finger up instead of thrusting. He’s smart and experienced – she’ll give him that much.

“You don’t have to be so quiet.” He practically purrs before pressing another finger into her.

Blair does her best to suppress her noises, much to Arthur’s annoyance.

He works her, slowly but surely and all he could do was press his tongue back to her clit as he curled his fingers against her walls.

She gives a soft cry – high-pitched and needy – and he smirks against her with a sense of pride and satisfaction. Blair covers her face with her arms as he continues to work her into a withering mess, and she felt him deepen his efforts to get her to make more noises.

Her stomach tightens as he sucks on her clit, and Arthur could tell her end was coming. Her walls started to flutter, and as soon as she feels herself ready and accepting of falling over the edge, he pulls away, leaving her achy and empty.

She feels breathless, as if she was drowning in the thick arousal and smell of sex that covered them. Blair can’t remember the last time she was feeling like this; this heavy feeling that sits in the pit of her stomach and ties itself into too many knots that leave her wound up and begging for any sense of release.

Arthur’s on top of her in seconds, pressing his lips everywhere but her own and she keens just loud enough for him to hear. He kneads at her hips before hefting her up and throwing her deeper into the bed before he kicks off his dirty work pants.

Blair finds herself turning onto her belly, her face pressed deep into a pillow but Arthur stops her and turns her back around with an empathetic look.

He straddles her thigh, pressing his lips to hers and she relishes in the taste of his tongue. The taste of cheap whiskey and premium cigars. He grinds down on her thigh, a soft groan leaving his throat and all Blair can do is flush a deep pink.

She’s sobering up now, but he’s still deep within the hold of whiskey that warms his body and blurs his state of mind. His pupils are blown, and his body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat – she notices that she’s covered in a sheen of sweat as well.

There are no words said between them as he moves and lines himself up, only to hesitate just to watch her writhe and shiver underneath him.

“ _Christ_ , Arthur –,” she whispers, and that was all he needed to move.

He pressed into her slowly, inch by grueling inch, and her back arches once more as he does so. Her legs scrape helplessly against his hips, her belly – pale and flat and strong – brushing against his own. Her nails dig little crescent moons into his biceps as she gasps and heaves underneath him.

She looks away from him, her eyes squeezed shut and her cheek pressing deep into the pillow only to have his rough, calloused hands cup her face with a gentle ease she hasn’t felt in a long time.

As her cheeks flush a deep red and her chest tightens at how his soft eyes glance down at her, he looks at her as is there’s something in her worth looking at. And she _trembles_ ; hoping, praying that he never looks away.

He’s completely seated now, the tip pressing in places she didn’t even know existed in her. Her legs relax and spread wider, and Arthur takes that as a motion to move.

She makes notes in her mind about how sweet and soft Arthur could be with a little too much alcohol coursing through his system.

She also makes note of how _filthy_ he is as he slowly rolls his hips into her.

He commands and praises her in hushed slurs, and she does as she’s told. She feels his ocean blues boring into her soul as he snakes a hand between them to rub at her clit.

Her mouth falls out into a small moan, and he grazes his teeth over her jugular.

“Tha’s it…” he groans against her neck, hot puffs of air slipping over her collar bone as he sucks at the juncture of her neck. “ _Easy girl_.” He practically purrs in her ear, lewd noises and soft groans filling the room.

Her stomach starts to tighten, and she shifts harshly under him. Her head turns away from him, her eyes squeezed shut at her hips started to roll and stutter under him. Her walls start to tighten around him, and all he could do was moan from the constriction.

He pulls away and sits up only to grab at her hips, run his palms over her thighs.

“C’mon, Darlin’…” his own hips are starting to stutter and give into her tightening pleasure, “Look at me.” She refused, wholeheartedly as she waits for herself to fall over the edge with soft gasps and little whimpers.

A hand reaches out, pulling her face to look at him once more, and she can’t help but obey his soft demands.

She opens her eyes, his eyes boring into hers and she feels herself fall.

Her walls start to flutter around him, all too tight and filled with enough ecstasy to cause her stomach to twist and churn.

He presses a thumb to her clit, helping her ride it all out with a small grin on his face as he feels himself start to give into his own pleasure.

He pulls out at the last minute, stroking himself with wild abandon and painting her belly in thick strips of white. His moans are guttural and deep as his own thighs shake and his strong stomach twitches.

Arthur falls on top of her, and she lets out an exasperated noise. His chuckle is heavenly and she can’t help but snicker, pressing her nose into his hair.

He smells of campfire smoke and depression, and it felt like she could inhale that scent – his scent – every waking moment.

“Okay, you need to move.” She pushes at his shoulders harshly and he lazily moves off her, his chuckle still causing his belly to roll.

“Can never get the wild out of ya, huh?”

“I guess not.”

He’s passed out within the hour, snoring softly with his back turned to her.

A cigarette sits softly between her lips, a glass of whiskey resting on her knee as she stares out the window that is adjacent to the bed.

She finds herself insecure; self-conscious and unsure of what she had let herself feel with Arthur. In the moments of their fit between the sheets, she found herself void of any thoughts of Brandon, and she felt as if she betrayed him.

She felt as if she _cheated_ on him.

Blair scoffs, pulling her half-finished cigarette from her lips and throwing back her glass. How do you even cheat on a dead man, let alone a man who wasn’t even in existence?

She dresses herself, packs her small bag of what she had lying around the dresser.

Blair spots herself in the mirror, having to do a double take because of herself.

How long has it been since she’d seen her reflection? Six – maybe seven months?

Her roots were starting to show, her sandy blonde hair peeking out past the platinum blonde strands that hung in messy curls above her shoulders. Fingers runs through the stands, pushing them back and settling them down a bit with a dissatisfied groan before she continues to throw things in her bag.

She calls for Congo as Arthur stirs softly, shifting from his side to his back with arms sprawled out and his mouth slightly open as he snores, and something in her chest tightens at the sight.

Her eyes linger, a hair too long, and then she leaves with a soft click of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how wine drunk I had to get to write this? 
> 
> Do you know how much holy water is takes to wash away this kinda sin?
> 
> I hate myself, and I hope it was good because it's been a really long time since I've written smut and I WATCHED A LOT OF POONING FOR THIS
> 
> Let me know if you liked it because they might fuk more.


	11. Westward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA I'm not dead but I wish I was

She’s forgotten.

Blair has forgotten what life was like in the Twenty-First Century.

The bright colors, the blaring noises, the obnoxious people. She’s forgotten the smell of car smog, the gasoline, the way modern guns smell versus the way the guns that she carries now smell. The way men and women talk to her – with a sense of admiration and a hint of jealousy – and the way of her work.

Blair had gone from a modern military woman, to a full blown outlaw within a matter of, what, five years.

She’s forgotten it all as she lets Jack sit in between her and the horn of her saddle, reading to him a book on flower language while the rest of them all move west.

 _West_. Towards Colorado.

No doubt that it’s gonna be different from how she’s seen it in her life, but she’s excited nonetheless to see the state and what it has to offer in this time period.

“Pe… pe-o…” Jack stutters over a word, and Blair looks down at him.

“Pe-o-ny,” she says it in a soft, slow voice as he watches her lips. “Try it with me, _peony_.”

“Pee-ny.” She chuckles, and ruffles his hair.

“Close enough.”

“Why do you have a book on flowers?” she sighs, a genuine smile gracing her lips.

“Because I like flowers, but sometimes I don’t know what certain ones are. I keep the book so I can identify them when I’m out.”

“Do you think Colorado has peonies?” she chuckles softly at his over enunciation.

“Oh, no, Colorado is way too cold for these flowers, I think. But closer to California, they grow up in the Sierra’s in wide, and wild bunches.” His eyes sparkle, and she listens to him talk about how he wants to see them as he turns the page.

“What kind of flowers grow in Colorado?”

“Plenty. If your mom’s okay with me taking you out, I can show you where the best wildflower patches are and you can pick to your heart's content.”

He liked the sound of that, as he goes on off a tangent from flowers to making crowns. He’s a sweet kid, filled with a certain kind of innocence she’s never seen in her nieces and nephews.

Then again, they grow up with parents who did their best to _not_ shelter them from the horrors of the world.

She wishes that she was just as innocent and as oblivious as the little boy that sat in front of her with a book of flowers in his arms. If only others were that generous and loving to her, but instead, she was clouded and covered in the aftermaths of war and wrath.

The sun set below the western horizon, and Abigail had come to grab a dozing Jack from Blair’s arms.

“Did he give you a hard time?” Blair leaned in her saddle with Jack leaning against her shoulder and chuckled.

“He’s a sweet kid, I think the only trouble is that I wasn’t able to smoke in front of him.”

“Well, if that’s the worst thing to happen, I’d say it was eventful.” Jack shifted softly under Abigail’s hold before settling once more, “Thank you, I didn’t know who else to ask since the men were all busy with… whatever they seem to be doing.”

“Ah, it’s not a problem. He’s a good kid, and I’d watch him any day.”

“Careful, what you ask for Miss Olsen, you might just get it.” Blair laughs, airy and light.

“Oh, if I could solely babysit that kid in your arms, I would happily do it.” Abigail smiles at her, petting down some loose hairs on Jacks head.

“Thanks again.” Abigail walks off with her son in her arms, and Blair can’t help but smile at the sight of it.

Then her smile dropped the moment Arthur came riding up to her.

She placed herself in the back of the caravan’s, keeping an eye out with Lenny while babysitting Jack, but when she looked over to her right side, she noticed that Lenny had left.

He must have gotten called up front.

“What’s going on?”

“Ah, Dutch wanted Micah and Lenny to ride up and scout out the next area.” She finds herself shifting awkwardly in her seat, leaving her mare to snort and shudder under her. “Thought I’d keep ya company.”

“I’d prefer Micah.” She grumbles lowly, her lips forming a pout and her brows furrowing.

There’s a tense silence the settles and sinks between them, and she finds it hard to focus on anything but his presences. She feels like a teenage girl again, filled with rage and hormones and an awkward sense of emotions that she tried so hard to get rid of.

“With what happened between –,”

“It was a one-time thing –,” Her voice cuts through his like a bullet, leaving a wide, empty hole within the both of them. She sighs, rubbing her face with her gloved hands. “We were both drunk, and things like that were only a heat of the moment.” She does her best to explain what she’s feeling – or what she supposed to be feeling.

There are no lies in her fire, but this little white lie might sit and smolder in the embers as she feels her stomach twist at the way Arthur face contort several times with several emotions.

He’s confused at first, then he shows a moment of sadness with how his brows furrowed up and a small pout before he looks away and starts to light a cigarette.

“One-time thing…”

“Yeah.”

And that was the end of it.

.-.-.

They unpacked and built up the tents before the sun set. A party roared and crackled into the starry night as Javier strummed a soft tune and the girls sang a sweet melody. The men all drank their fair share of moonshine, and some of them started a game of poker at the circular table covered with thick pronghorn hide.

Blair stood at the water’s edge with a soft glow of her cigarette illuminating her face. The water lapped slowly at her ankles as she let her head tipped back and smoke left her lips in thick plumes.

Blair was always someone who adored the water.

She was first place in all of her high school swim competitions, always had the best scores during training when she was thrown in the pool with a 60 pound pack on her body and clad in a full form uniform.

And now, she and the gang found themselves at the water’s edge of Chatfield reservoir, with rocks that could be used to dive and jump from and a shore she could run in and out of.

She found herself giddy with excitement and with a sense of ease that settled deep in her chest. Clear blue water with a full moon shinning big and bright against the surrounded by a thick forest and colorful foliage.

This new spot was beautiful and serene and –

It didn’t last long. The strings were brought to a halt, the girls singing quieted and the men around the poker table were already up from their chairs – which were knocked over by the force and slight drunkenness – with their revolvers unholstered.

There was a steady tension as the bushes rustled and a large chestnut shire showed herself with her rider upon her back. The man had balls to show himself through the front door of the wolves den, unarmed and unfazed.

He was a large man – even larger since he was placed tall atop his draught – with a monotone look to his features, and clad in black.

Blair was the only one without a gun in her hands, as she walked up from the lakes edge and into the heart of camp.

“Madam Bronte heard you were in town, Miss Olsen.” His voice was low and just as monotonous as his face, and all Blair could do was curve her lip into a soft snarl.

“Sylvester.” Her voice was as sharp as a blade, but her stance – hands tucked into her pockets, a cigarette burning slowly between her slightly chapped lips, her hair thrown up with a simple ribbon – showed a sense of ease and casual energy. Her eyes were still icy, watching for every twitch of Sylvester’s hands and thighs with a deep caution. “What do you want?”

She noticed how he looked around the camp, taking a mental picture of each and every tent, every person, and every horse. His eyes stopped on Jack for a second longer then Blair liked, and she snapped.

“Pay attention, Sylvester or _Madam_ Bronte will be greeted with your head on a pike.” She growls, and starts to paces on soft grass. Her toes dug deep into the mud, as she hunches her shoulders up and back. “I asked a question. Answer it.”

The men behind her were getting itchy trigger fingers with how their revolvers clicked and how their boots would crunch and squelch under the wet grass. Sylvester adjusted his reins, and sat up a little taller on his horse.

“Tomorrow, noon. Madam Bronte wants to talk.” Her nose crinkled and she huffed at him. She refused to respond; refused to give him a confirmation of the appointment.

So, she waved her hand at him – a simple signal of acknowledgement – and she watched with a tense body and icy eyes as he nods once, and pulls his horse back the way he came.

The camp was left in a tense silence, waiting – _hoping_ – he wouldn’t come back.

“Lenny, Bill, make sure he doesn’t come back.” Dutch pointed with a snarl, whiskey lingering on his breath. Blair watched at the two men mounted quickly and ride out quietly as the camp started to settle.

But Blair couldn’t settle, with the hair on the back of her neck sticking up and her thighs twitching and itching to get up and follow him herself.

“I would double down on night watch, Dutch.” She calls out, her own voice monotonous and strong and her bare heels dug into the damp, squishy earth. Her eyes were still placed at the entrance of the clearing, waiting – _hoping_ – no one was there watching them.

.-.-.

Blair stood at the edge of the lakes edge, the only light coming from the glow of her cigarette that sat all too comfortably between her lips. There was muffled voices of songs being sung behind her, and Dutch’s low growls being soothed by an ever calm Hosea. The crickets chirped their songs, the owls hooted their calls, and the elk screamed to be known in the night.

She blew a soft billow of smoke into the air as cold water splashed against her bare ankles, and she allowed the goosebumps and the shivers to run through her skin.

She felt a small tug on the hem of her coat, and her gaze fell down slowly to see a small Jack rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“They’re being loud.” Blair threw her cigarette into the splashing water, and picked Jack up.

“Should I grab your mother?” She starts to walk away as a breeze picks up and twirls around them, pushing his hair from his face softly.

“I don’t know where she is.” He lays his head down on her shoulder, and her natural instinct calls for her to smooth the stray hairs on his head.

She doesn’t.

“Do you want me to leave you with Mary-Beth or Tilly?” he shakes his head, and she huffs a laugh at that.

“Can I stay with you?” she halts in her movements for a split second – enough for her to notice her hesitation but not enough for Jack to feel – but continues forward towards the fire and the music.

“You can, if that’s what you would want.”

She goes against her own mind – and follows her heart – and smooths the hairs on his head, only to pull a small, white daisy with a bright yellow center from his head.

There’s a sense of innocence in the pure white petals and an ease of sweetness from the bright, pollen filled center. It’s fitting for a boy stuck in a world full of fear, rage and war.

Some of the petals are missing, and those that are stuck on the stem are creased and bent. Her nose scrunches a bit at the tattered flower before placing back in his hair.

She hopes – deep and sorrowful – that symbolism stays just words on a piece of paper and she takes him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I went MIA for a month. I went through a really nasty break up, I moved out of my apartment, and I started school. 
> 
> AKA I've been hella fucking busy and hella fucking sad and I didn't want to fucking write but now I do so here I am 
> 
> I HOPE YOU LIKED IT BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS ABOUT TO GET FUCKING REAL
> 
> Also I'm sorry it's really short, I had to add a filler of some sorts.


	12. Aurora Bronte, A Woman Of Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK  
> ME  
> I'M SO SORRY

When people hear the name _Aurora Bronte_ , most would clear their throats and try to change the subject.

See, there were rumors that circulated around that strangely large city. Terrible rumors that seemed to bring a chill down even the strongest man’s spine. Rumors of children coming in on fancy wagons pulled by large draft with fancy braids in their manes. Their hooves would click against the cobblestone roads in synchronization with each other. The wagons would be moving at a steady trot, and the children in the wagon would be amazed by the largeness of the city.

But those wagons would leave empty, and those children could never be found.

No one ever questioned it, because the woman runs the city – just like her Brother does in Saint Denis.

Blair was – for once – nervous on meeting the Italian woman, or maybe she was scared because anyone in this city could put two and two together when it came to the rumors of this city.

_“She uses the children to run her textile factory.”_

_“She uses the children as slaves, no doubt.”_

_“Those kids are never coming back, she’s a damn devil woman.”_

The whispers left chills to run through her spine, and she dipped her head down to hide her face between her hair. Her mare followed behind Dutch and John’s stallions at an easy pace, and Blair let her trot with loose reins and relaxed legs.

“How true are those whispers?” Dutch kept his voice low, and his head down as they trotted down the cobblestone roads.

“They’re rumors, but the missing children thing is real. I wouldn’t bring Jack into the city ever.” He merely grunted a response as they turned the corner and continued their way.

The path turned from cobblestone to dirt and the whispers and rumors soon faded to the winds as the horses slowed. The sun beat down on their shoulders, and she could feel the heat seep through her coat and burn her skin. The house stood at the edge of the city – large and Victorian and standing out against the town’s neutral colors.

Pink walls, large oaks trees, white trim and colorful flowers.

The definition of _wealth_.

Outside of the house were men standing guard and a woman tending to her flower beds at the front of the house. A gramophone was pulled from inside and pulled close to what they all could assume was Aurora Bronte. Thick, dark hair was pulled into a tight and fancy bun, her white dress now covered in grass stains and dirt, and the canvas smock holding her tools.

A hand shovel, some clippers, and a pearl handled revolver.

The two men at the front of the gate walked up to the three without a word and held onto the reins of Dutch’s stallion. The Count turned antsy – aggressive almost – as the man pulled too harshly on his bit.

“All of your guns must be held up front.” The bigger of the two spoke, eyeing Blair harshly before narrowing his eyes at Dutch.

She pushed her shoulders back, her head held high and her lips curling up in a snarl before removing her guns. The men were harsh in taking her guns, and her mare stomped her front hooves and threw her head towards the man, spooking him slightly. Soft Italian left his lips, and all Blair could do was growl lowly.

“ _I’d be careful what you say around people. You never know who might speak your mother tongue._ ” Blair sneered softly – her voice a soft as silk – as they let them through the gates. The men huffed in annoyance, as they were guided to the front doors of the mansion.

Cherry trees lined the cobblestone pathway as hooves clicked in unison until they were met with a woman who barely moved from her front steps.

“And what do I owe the pleasure of meeting such a fine-looking man?” her voice was silky and gruff in all of the right ways. Years of smoking and flirting with men to get what she wanted coming to the surface, no doubt.

Dutch merely kept a forced smile on his lips as he dismounted The Count, but Blair and John stays sturdy on their steads. “I think the pleasure’s all mine, madam.”

He tips his hat, but she extends her hand to him. _Kiss my hand, you are below me_.

His lips catch the snarl as he chuckles and puts on the show, Blair hides a scoff.

“Why don’t you come in for some wine and cheese, and we can talk about what you are here for.”

“Why do you assume we are here for something?”

“No one rides up my path unless they want something, so either accept my invitation, or leave.”

Blair and John end up following Dutch into the house, leaving their guns at the front door.

.-.-.

_“Get rid of my competition, and I’ll give you all the gold you can dream of.”_

That one-line set Dutch into an unusual mood. The ride back to camp was unusual, Dutch was stuck mumbling to himself about the gold she offered him – offered them. He had a glassy look in his eyes as he looked down at the horn of his saddle. Blair watches the way his shoulders tense as he softly mumbles to himself for a split second before catching himself.

Stella was becoming restless as they felt the last of the suns heat as they come up onto the hidden trail that lead to their makeshift home. There’s a heavy silence as they all dismount and hitch their horses.

John and Blair are left watching Dutch walk off to his closed off tent, a weird feeling settling deep in her stomach.

“Should I be worried about him?”

“We’ll have to see.”

She stays up on watch that night, a steaming cup of coffee next to her foot as she watched the area by the fire. It crackled and popped at her feet as she sharpened her knife and let her thoughts stew in her mind.

Aurora Bronte.

Blair never liked the woman. She worked with her at one time, but she never had to meet her. It was easy money, and a one-time job that turned to her having to murder half of her men-for-hire because they wouldn’t stop hunting her.

No doubt, if she brought up the alias that she used to Ms. Bronte, she and this gang would be fucked tenfold.

But Blair found it weird, how easy it was to bribe Dutch with just the idea of cash. Was he truly that hellbent on getting money quick and easy no matter how dirty their hands must get?

Or was it something else that was pushing him?

She refused to sleep that night, and sure as shit, she refused to sleep that morning as Sean came over to relieve her of her guard.

“Why don’ ya get some sleep, girly.” She chuckles and shakes her head.

“I’m gonna go hunting, then maybe I’ll sleep.

As she walks off with a soft smile and a casual wave, she realizes no one fights her on it.

.-.-.

She comes trotting up to a disaster.

“If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to kill somebody.”

Sadie Adler.

She was all spitfire, with a tongue quick as a bullet and a short temper to boot.

As Blair carried over the string of ducks to the butchers table, she watches as Sadie pointed a knife at Mr. Pearson’s face, a snarl painting her lips.

“And If you don’t stop _hissing_ at me, I’m gonna kill you.”

Blair merely sighed at the two, starting to feel the heavy exhaustion hit her.

“Come near me, sailor… and I’ll slice you up!” Blair snorts at her comment, causing them to cut themselves off and look at Blair.

“I’m sorry – oh god, carry on, please. I wouldn’t mind seeing her stringing you up and bleeding you like a pig.”

“What the hell is goin’ on ‘ere!?” Arthur yells, walking up to the wagon with brows pressed deeply into a scowl.

“I ain’t chopping vegetables for a livin’!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, madam…,” Blair throws the stringed up birds at Pearson with a glare, before watching Arthur throw his arms around at Sadie, “Was there insufficient feathers in yer pillow?”

“Arthur, don’t be an ass.” Blair snaps, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She’s stir crazy, and I don’t fucking blame her.” Sadie looks at Blair before looking back at Arthur.

“Look, I _ain’t_ lazy, Mr. Morgan. I’ll work, but not this.” She throws her arms up in the air, pushing herself past Pearson as Arthur throws his arms up.

“Well, ain’t cookin’ work?” Arthur looks incredulous, as he shoots Pearson a look.

“Why don’t Sadie and I run into town to get some things.” Blair throws out into the air, gauging everyone’s reaction. “Pearson, did you have anything that needed to be picked up?”

There was a pause, the air filled with a hesitant confusion before he nodded with a mumble that she didn’t care to try and hear.

“Ya sure that’s a good idea?” Blair threw him a glare before Sadie could.

“Fine, then I’m gonna let her kill Pearson and _you_ can take over as camp cook.” She snapped again, now starting to feel an ache in her bones. There’s a soft hesitation in his eyes, he wants to say something, to protest or offer to join but he bites his tongue and nods.

“I’ll get the horses ready for the two of ya.”

Arthur walks off as Sadie watches Blair’s reaction as Pearson walks up with a list and a letter.

“Here’s my list, and can you post this letter for me?”

Blair nods along, motioning for Sadie to follow. Arthur finished tightening the straps to the shire’s who whinnied and stopped their hooves into the dirt. He barely looked at her and Blair was left feeling something within the pit of her stomach.

It was a weird feeling, that settled heavily enough to make her to feel nauseous and as she climbs up into the wagons seat and Arthur hands her the reins, she knows she’s going to have to talk to him about whatever feelings she’s having.

But she won’t.

She snaps the reins, clucks softly and sits deep into the wooden seat as the wagon lurched forward.

“Hopefully, the town isn’t too far from here.” Blair grunts as Sadie sits comfortably in her presence.

“You didn’t have ta do any of that back there.”

“Oh, I know, but both of those men were gettin’ on my nerves, too.” She lights a cigarette, puffs on it softly before passing it over to Sadie, who happily took it. “And I’m sure with how they were talking down to ya, you were as close as I was to skinning the both of them.”

“They are pretty annoying.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did skin Pearson, but don’t expect to get out of cooking duty’s if you do.” Sadie laughs, hearty and full as she takes another drag of her cigarette.

The trail stays quiet, as the two women pass the cigarette until it’s gone. Sadie hums a tune, and Blair tries her best to join in, but she’s not sure what song she’s playing.

The town they run into is larger than a normal town, but still small enough to be considered a town. They pulled up next to the store, and all Blair did was sit in the seat for a moment to let her shoulders decompress.

“So, what’s the plan?” Blair looked up at her as she pulled a revolver out from her skirt. “I shoot the shopkeeper while you –,”

“Are you _mad_?” Blair snatches the gun from her hands and pushes it down to hide it from any onlookers.

“I thought we was outlaws.”

“Jesus Christ above…” she pushes the gun into Sadie’s lap and gets out of the wagon, “No killing, not fighting, no fuckin’ nonsense. Just get the materials and whatever else you want or need and then let’s get home. I’m gonna drop of this letter so please. No trouble.”

“Fine.” Sadie grumbles as she tucks her revolver back into her skirt.

“You’ll have time to shoot some bastards, I promise.”

She hears Sadie grumble, before waving her off and walks into the General Store as Blair made her way towards the Post Office.

She sent the letter off, not staying too much longer then to look at the bulletin board to see if there was anything that could bring in money.

Then she saw it.

A large estate was hiring maids, and they planned on paying big money for it.

She pulled the paper from the wooden board, reading it closer as she pushed through the doors. She would have to grab some new clothes, a dress most likely, but this was something that she could do.

She and Sadie, maybe.

“I’ve birthed foals with more strength than you.” Sadie’s voice pulled her from the job poster, and she watched as she berated the man loading the wagon dressed in men’s clothing. “Hell, my sisters newborn had more strength than you, and he came out bright blue.” The man looked exasperated, and frustrated with how Sadie was talking to him, but the woman paid so he bit his tongue and continued to throw sacks of potatoes into the back of the wagon and load boxes to the edge.

“I see you’ve gotten some better fitting attire.” Blair smiles at her, enjoying the new look that she picked.

“I feel like, if I’m gonna start runnin’ with the men, I should dress like them.”

“Don’t expect the men in town or cities to like how you look though.” She climbs up into the wagon, still looking over the poster a bit before passing the reins to Sadie when he settled into her seat.

“Why don’t you drive us back.”

“Okay.” And so she did, letting the reins snap against the large shires romps before peaking over Blair’s shoulder and looking at the poster. “Whatcha got there?”

“A possible job, if you want to join me. A large estate is looking for maids, maybe worth a look to see if there’s worth taking.”

“Does it require a dress.”

“Unfortunately, but imagine the riches that might be held within those walls.” Sadie ponders, leading the shires towards him at a slow trot.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Then we’ll ride out tomorrow.”

Blair settled into her seat, her hat sitting softly over her eyes with a smile across her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope quarantine is going great for you guys, and since I'm not working or at school, I'm gonna be writing more. I'm gonna be redoing Hamartia entirely with a new title and a new plot but it's gonna be the same Annabel and Arthur love. 
> 
> This one however, I'm gonna be working on just making it as badass and god send as ever but I need to find my book that I wrote all of my ideas in for this story.
> 
> I hope everything is going good for everyone, and I hope you guys like this chapter because it me way to long to get this shit out.


	13. The Unlikely Adventures of Bitchface & Go Fuck Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me go.   
> Go me.  
> I think it's time for ice cream and puppy cuddles.

Sadie pulled at her bodice strings, causing Blair to huff.

“Not so tight, I won’t be able to move.” A growl passed her lips as Sadie pulled tighter.

“How are you this damn skinny?” the ties were pulled into a small bow before she tossed Blair a blouse.

“I’m not _that_ skinny.”

“Ya have no fat on ya.”

“It’s called muscle, thank you.”

Sadie shut up after that.

The blouse was pulled over her head, before she could even know what was happening. Sadie was dressing her, only because she looked at the items in front of her and realized that she had no clue how to put anything like this on.

 _“Have ya never worn a dress before?”_ she could still hear Sadie’s incredulous calls, even as she yanks her around.

“Throw the stockings on, put the shoes on and let’s get going.” She did as she was told, too afraid to get manhandled by Sadie anymore.

Her hair was put in a single French braid, strands of her hair sticking out to the side and styled with small bits of pomade. She looked like a _proper_ woman, and the term left a weird taste in her mouth.

She finished lacing up the soft leather boots and sat on her cot for a minute with Congo’s head in her lap.

“Next trip, I promise.”

The sun is peaking over the large evergreens, leaving her slightly blinded as she leaves her tent. Congo follows, mostly out of habit, looking high up at her as she walks over to Sadie and the small wagon.

“Look at you.” She looked over at Arthur, knowing it was him just by his morning drawl. “You look like a proper _lady_.”

“Maybe next, we’ll get you to look like a proper _man._ ” She teases, a soft smile pulled from her lips.

“Ah, can’t make an old bastard like me look tha’ good, miss.” She snorts, and he offers her a hand. Blair looks at it, confused at first then unsure.

She takes his hand, allowing him to help her up into the wagon. He’s soft, she can see that with how he tries when he’s around the other women, Jack and even around Congo. He’s a gentleman, and she holds a humorous scoff as she thinks it.

Arthur’s a brute, but sure as shit, he’s also a gentleman.

She settles into her seat next to Sadie, feeling no give from her bodice. Blair feels like she sits straighter than she’s used to, and her back starts to tighten and cramp slightly.

“Oh, Arthur.” She calls out to him, and he turns to her looking up with confused eyes. “Do you mind watching Congo while I’m out? He’s been stir-crazy and chewin’ on everythin’ in sight.”

There’s a pause in his actions, his hat – scuffed up and worn from his days on the trails and on the run – covering his eyes from the bright sun.

Then there’s a smile, soft and warm with a slight cockiness that causes her to smirk and roll her eyes at him.

“I’ll do my best, miss.”

And with that, they were off.

.-.-.

They traveled for ten hours before they were up on the large estate. High iron fencing kept the place safe, and guards with rifles and dogs shot beady eyes at the women as they pulled the shire to a halt.

“State yer business!”

“We’re here to respond a job advertisement?” Blair pulled the paper out from her satchel, noticing how the guards tightened their holds on their rifles. “We found it in town, was wondering if it’s still available.”

There’s a tense pause, the two guards looking at each other before looking back at the women, “Go on in, show the guys closer to the house the paper. They’re take you to the man of the house.”

“Thank you.”

She felt tense, probably due to the bodice that hugged awkwardly at her ribs. It could be from the way those guards looked at her and Sadie that made her pull a snarl to her lips and cause tension to pool in her shoulders.

The front entrance of the house is large, with a fishbowl like aesthetic. Large windows with sheer curtains and a balcony that you could walk around the entire house and see the whole property. The barn was just as large, with horses nickering and snorting as workers threw flats of hay and alfalfa into their stalls. It was around the time for dinner for the horses, she assumed.

“We could try and steal a look at those horses, see how good they are.” Sadie’s voice was only a whisper, and Blair could only nod at her.

“The house is what I’m interested in the most. A place that big is bound to have some money tucked away.”

“How do you want to do this?” Blair sat deep into her seat; hands folded softly in her lap.

She thought out a basic plan before they even left the General store: stake out the house for a day or two, take what they could carry, leave in the dead of night with absolutely no casualties.

But with how many guards are around, stealing looks at them – the new women from who knows where – she wonders just how hard it’s gonna be to have little to no casualties.

“Let’s spend the day looking around, seeing what there is in the house and the barn. If anything, we can bring some of those horses back to sell at the stables or someone who’s in the market for a good horse for cheap.”

“That sounds like a decent plan.” She feels Sadie pull on the reins, stopping in front of another pair of guards.

“We’re here about the job offer?” the guard on the right – tall and burly, built like he’s seen too much shit in his life time to be scared of anything thrown his way – looked over at the other guard, a brow cocked up in confusion.

“I thought we took those flyers down?” the other shrugged, lanky and uncaring of the others question.

“We must ‘ave missed one or two.” The tall one turned to them, readjusting his rifle in his arms.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but the man of the house ain’t taken anymore workers at this time.” Blair was about to say something, but Sadie pulled a worried, desperate drawl from lips.

“We traveled for a whole day for this job, and we truly need the money.” She licks her bottom lip, and pouts and Blair had to stifle a chuckle into a cough. “My sister and I… Our pa is very sick, and he needs medicine. We have no momma, and we’re all he’s got. We just some honest work, that’s all we want.”

The two guards look over at each other, seemingly starstruck at her plea. Blair tapped her toes onto Sadie’s and gave her a hopeful side eye.

“Follow me to the house and wait in your wagon. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” Sadie chokes a fake sob, and Blair is stuck covering her mouth and having a coughing fit to cover her laughter.

It takes about an hour and half, but they’re allowed to work for a few weeks to help pay for medicine. Sadie thanks the tall man – Don, she finds out from Sadie later – before introducing themselves.

“I’m Maria, and this is my sister, Penny.” Blair stands there, her hands folded before her back out of habit, before extending a hand towards the man. He’s nice to start, but she had a feeling that he would cause this whole miss– job to fail.

“I’ll show you two to yer room, then tomorrow morning the head maid will show you what work needs to be done.”

“Thank you, again.”

Their room was quaint, two single beds pushed into each corner, with a chest at the end of each bed. They were given a few weeks to work, but they’ll be out of here by day three.

But it sure was since to lay on a real mattress.

“It’s been too long since I’ve laid in a bed this soft.” Blair chuckles sitting into the springy mattress.

“Should we scout tonight?” Sadie calls from her place in her bed, pressing her head deeper into the pillow with each sigh.

“If you’re up for it. We’d have to be careful doing so.” She leans her elbows on her knees before looking over at Sadie. “Also, Penny?”

“I had a filly named Penny, and she was the sweetest.”

Blair snorts, before looking out the window in between their beds.

.-.-.

Blair and Sadie wondered around alone, not wanting to seem suspicious – though how much suspicion could two simple, country ladies bring upon themselves.

Sadie said she would look at the barn, which left the house to Blair.

The house was large, a three-story building with more then twenty rooms all together. Each room held someone who worked on the property, and she noticed that the top floor held the main office of the man who owned the property.

She climbed the stairs with quiet steps, looking around to make sure no one was around. She tip-toed around the wooden floors, stepping back and around when one floorboard made to loud of a noise.

Blair found the owner’s room, and even though her curiosity ate at her, she couldn’t risk it. Snoring could be heard from behind the door, so she moved on hoping that would satisfy her curiosity just enough until tomorrow.

The door to his office was right next to his room, and it creaked softly as she cracked it open. It was dark and slightly cold with how the breeze blew through the open French doors. Her steps found carpet and she looked around in each drawer and cabinet for anything that would be worth taking that he wouldn’t notice.

Small silver rings, gold chains, an antique pocket watch. She found some folded up bills – at least a few hundred dollars’ worth – in the bottom drawer. She stuffs the money in her bodice, and the small items in her skirt pockets.

She continues to look through his drawers, before finding a letter addressed from Aurora Bronte.

Her eyes skim over it, hoping to pull any important information from it but ends up folding it up tight and stuffing it into her bodice next to the money.

She left the room with nothing left over, and everything back in place.

.-.-.

The next morning was met with work.

It wasn’t hard or brutal, but Blair only got two hours of sleep, and she wasn’t allowed coffee until the linens were hung to air dry in the back.

She joined another young woman – petite and cute but couldn’t speak English – to hang stark white linens on a clothesline.

The woman – who went by Betty because the others never understood what was coming out of her mouth – was from Russia. She was called by the wrong name for so long, she had forgotten what it was, but it didn’t matter anymore. Betty was happy, she was being paid and she had a place to stay at night with protection.

Though, some men would take advantage of her, Blair found out.

The world was cruel and sickening that watching her use the wooden stool to hang clothes to dry and smile as she talked about her time in Russia only to know that most nights she was under a different man and not willingly.

Something sparked in Blair as she continued to talk to Betty in soft tones, and she wasn’t sure what it was. She’s been in this unruly land for so long (it felt like forever since she’s seen her modern days) she’s practically forgotten to be human.

Blair was an animal; all feral and marred with life’s cruel jokes. She created her own sunshine out of the flames she was given, and it wasn’t much but she was able to create a forest fire out of the small, broken matches.

But here, in this moment, she softened. She reached out a hand to Betty, who was confused at first, but took it with a child like smile.

Blair pulled her into a small but warming hug.

_“I’ll make sure no one hurts you again.”_

It was a promise she was sure she was going to keep.

.-.-.

“All of their horses are pure blooded Arabians.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“When I went into town, I asked the stable hand what an Arabian would sell for with papers.” Sadie paused for dramatic effect, a large smile on her face, “1,250 dollars.”

“Good lord.”

“They have twenty of them.”

“How do we plan on getting _twenty_ Arabian horses out of her, at night without being noticed.”

“The cover of night should be enough, and the stable hand said he would buy them all for 1200 dollars each and his place isn’t that far from here.”

“Should we trust him?”

“I think if he gives us a reason not to trust him, we shoot him.”

So, they changed into their regular attire, and Blair had a sigh of relief when she was able to slip her legs into her jeans and tuck her collared blouse in.

Blair did one more sweep of the house, taking any money clips she came across and stuffing them into her pockets, leaving a note tucked under Betty’s door with a few hundred dollars and a note saying that the chestnut shire with the small wagon was hers and that she should leave, before she met with Sadie at the stables.

She caught her dragging limp bodies into an empty stall, the horses slighting getting restless with all the action going around.

“Have you herded horses before?” Blair asks, slightly nervous about the whole situation.

“My pa used to do it, so I know a little bit.”

“I hope this works. I’ve only herded sheep.” She picked a stallion and tacked him up. “Did you find the papers by the way?”

“Yeah, they were stuffed up in the barn office. I grabbed the whole bundle of them.”

“Good, lets head out then.”

The sounds of restless hooves set Blair into a frenzy as she and Sadie guided them towards the stable hands house. She was _sure_ that someone would have heard them stealing their horses, but in the dead of night – on a night that everyone was most likely drunk to high heaven – it went smoothly.

It took them an hour to get all the horses to the barn, with high nerves and two snappy women guiding a whole heard of Arabian horses.

But they did it.

And they were twenty-four thousand dollars richer.

The hired a stagecoach to take them back to town outside of Chatfield Reservoir, not wanting to stay any longer than they should have.

As they passed over the valley’s, they passed a small woman in a wagon pulled by a sweet chestnut shire.

Blair smiled, tilted her hat, and took a small nap.

.-.-.

They walked into camp as the sun starts to set; their satchels heavy with cash and items that were stolen along the way.

When the cash was dumped on the round table covered in Pronghorn hide, Dutch and Hosea gawked at them.

“Rich men are dumber than you think.”

They celebrated, drank and ate till their belly’s cramped only to laugh and sing along with Javier’s guitar. Soft folk songs were sung around the main campfire, and deer was skinned and cooked and simmered for the mornings stew. Sean got drunk, started to talk about _his da_ to which everyone shut him up. Uncle started to talk about the good ol’ days, and Javier talked of his days in Mexico.

Everyone seemed to be in high spirits, with enough money being collected to get them west, to get them a place to call home.

Everyone by Blair.

She was standing near the edge of the camp, relishing the way the cold water splashed against her ankles and relaxing into the soft breeze that passed through her hair. A cigarette placed loosely between her lips, and the soft glow was the only thing keeping her warm.

Her arms were crossed over her stomach; calm and relaxed as she took a deep drag of her cigarette.

Arthur came over, his own bare feet pressed into the soft sand and cooling waves. One hand was hooked into his gun belt, the other held his own cigarette.

They sat in silence, comfortable and at ease with each other’s presence and warmth.

Arthur snuck a look at her every so often, hoping that she wasn’t still put off by him, but her face showed a sense of calm and – dare he say it – _happiness_.

Arthur was a fighter with a warrior’s mind, but she was a battle he lost every time. Harsh eyes that softened when she saw Congo or Jack. Deadly hands that were soft to the touch. A hard body that would turn to putty if pressed correctly.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way, hell he didn’t deserve to feel this way.

But here he was, and here she was.

“Are you gonna stare the entire time?” she playful, and Arthur thanks whatever god that is there for that.

“Miss, ya got something weird on yer face.”

“What exactly is that?” she snips back, still smiling deeply but not looking in his direction.

“Is that… Miss Olsen, is that a smile I see on your face.”

“I can stop, you know.” She chuckles, finishing off her cigarette and snuffing it in the sand and cold water.

They continue to stand there in comfortable silence with the music playing softly behind them. There was no need for words, no need for abrupt actions or awkward looks, they simple could be in that one moment, comfortable with each other’s warmth until the pale moonlight.

She’s starting to soften; he can tell by the way her shoulders slouch slightly and how her eyes soften when she speaks and how her head is thrown back when she lets out a belly laugh.

He enjoys this part of Blair, and he think she’s enjoys this part of herself too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope these chapters are good, because I'm really proud of how I've outlined this story even before I took my accidental hiatus. I really missed and enjoy writing Blair, and I can't wait to get to the juicy parts of this story!


	14. Not One For Divinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been terrible with this story. When I first put it out I was in a good place and then I went on a weird hiatus and now that I'm back I completely forgot what my original plan other than blips and pieces. 
> 
> Also i just realized that I forgot about Mac and Davey Callander, and Jenny. SHould I add them just as like a cameo since Im about as useless as my non-dominant hand?

Blair sat at the rounded table; an Evelyn Miller novel held between her deft fingers. She picked it up in the nearest town, and she remembers having to read him in High School, and she’s always enjoyed the ideas that ran through his books.

_An American Eden_ was one of her favorites to the point she remembers writing a report on it during her senior year of High School.

A hand was placed on her shoulder as the sun peaked through the tall evergreens, and all she could do was hum without looking at the man. By the weight of the hand and the cool feeling of rings, she knew exactly who was behind her.

“Now what have we got here? What are you reading?” she looks up at him, showing him the cover of the book. The rough cotton cover and bright cold lettering leaving him with a growing smile.

“Yet, this is not liberty. We are not free merely to choose a poison. We are free to think, to feel and to be.” She quoted, before opening back to the page she was on, a rough chuckle resonated behind her.

“A woman with good taste, I can respect that.” He pats her shoulder, rough and almost painfully, “But right now, we got work to do.”

Aurora Bronte wanted a textile company from the town over to _burn_. They didn’t ask too many questions, but from the scouting that Hosea did for the last few days, he could only find that Aurora was charging high prices for her fabrics and using children for manufacturing.

The last bit was just speculated rumors, but from what Hosea found, they weren’t sure anymore.

The job was to be filled out by as few people as possible, to keep themselves from getting caught, so Dutch appointed just Blair, John, Bill and Arthur.

Blair wasn’t sure what to feel about it, truly. Her and Arthur have barely talked – only in passing when one was getting coffee or having a smoke outside of camp or when they pass each other on the way in or out of camp – so to have him working on a job with her once more had her stomach fill and tumble with melancholic nostalgia.

She tried her best to brush it off but failed the process.

They left by the afternoon, with Hosea leaving a map to Arthur and a general location of the area.

Blair had a saddle bag thrown over her shoulder, her strides slow and steady as she made her way to her mare. She picked at her nails as she passed by the two who talked is calmed tones, but she felt Arthur’s eyes bore into the back of her head.

“Why can’t I go with ya’ll? I’d be a better help then Bill.” Sadie scoffed as she made her way to Blair, matching her soft stride.

“I would love to have you on, but I heard you and Charles are going out tonight to check on those rumors. The one’s about the children.”

“Yeah, but its only to see. We’re not supposed to intervene.” She looked annoyed – itching for any kind of action that she can sink her teeth in.

“If you have the chance to save those kids, don’t let a man stop you from doing so. Just leave no one behind to know it was us that did it.”

“Are you sayin’ to go behind Dutch?”

“We are our own people; we have our own morals. If your gut says to save someone, you do it.”

“You didn’t do that with Kieran, not that I would’ve minded much.” Blair throws her bag over the horses’ romp, sighing deeply.

“I guess, at the time. Things were different.” She looks at Sadie, her eyes softer than they usually are. “You and I have problems with the O’Driscolls, but for two very different reasons.”

“We ever gonna know about those reasons?”

“I guess you’d owe me a drink to find out.”

She notices Arthur over Sadie’s shoulder, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt the way they always are. His eyes are hard; focused on her own and Blair can’t help but stare back.

Then he walks off to his own horse, throwing his own saddle bag over his mares’ romp.

“Be safe, Sadie.”

“You too, Blair.”

.-.-.

It was a three day ride out to where they needed to be, and the plan was to be there by the third night. On the morning of the fourth day they would look around, see exactly what they were hitting so that by the time night rolled around, they would be prepared to blow the place.

That didn’t work as well as they thought.

By the second night, they stayed in a local inn because the mosquitoes were incredibly rampant this time of year. It didn’t help that Bill drank himself to death that same night.

It also didn’t help that he got into a drunken fight that night either.

“Dammit, Bill. Ya jus’ had ta start up trouble.” Arthur was still thick in the hold of whiskey, but with the cuts that grazed the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones, he was sobering up faster than he wanted.

“He pushed me first.” Bill defended, wincing when Blair pressed the alcohol-soaked rag to his face.

“Quit moving, Bill.” She sighed, her own hands shaking and cut up from the brawl. He softly dabbed the rag on his face, her other hand holding his jaw still. She tried to be gentle in her actions, but there was a tiny glass shard in his cheek. “I need to remove the glass.”

John sat in the corner, nursing his own bruises and bloody knuckles with a water-soaked rag. It was white once, but now it was a deep reddish brown and cold from the air.

“You boys are a bunch of babies.” She huffs, looking between the three. “I swear.”

She went to her satchel, pulling a small kit from the worn bag. The embroidery that adorned it was a bull elk, simple in its shape and large antlers and its mouth open as if it was signaling a bugle.

Tweezers were pulled form the kit, and she continued cleaning up the boy’s wounds.

Glass was removed, blood was cleaned, knuckles were wrapped. Her delicate fingers ghosted over each wound with a purpose, and all she could do was furrow her brows and scold all three for getting involved like that.

“It’s one thing to have Bill get into fights, but it’s another for all three of you to get into fights – Quit moving, John.” She seethes, yanking his face to where it was just a moment before.

“I don’t need ya to dot on me, woman.” She digs the tweezers into his wound, and he hisses from the sharp pain.

“Do you want the glass to stay in your face then, and let it get infected?” he shakes his head as she snarls. “Then stop _moving_ and _never_ call me ‘woman’ again, do you understand.”

She finishes John up, sending both him and Bill to get a bath. She listens to them complain before she places money in both of their hands before pushing them out the door, muttering something about how they smell like ass crack.

It only left Arthur and Blair in the room.

She turned to him, watching as he rubs his sore knuckles with lulling eyes.

He was tired, and she wasn’t surprised all that much.

“Let’s patch you up and send you out for a bath.”

Her fingers were just as calloused as his were, but in some ways – at least to him – they were softer as they ghosted over his skin. It took a lot to not unconsciously lean into her hand as she pressed the clean cloth to his cheekbone.

He winces, but she continues her soft but firm presses to each cut on his face.

Her fingers are warm, her body radiates a heat that rivals hell itself, but there is no lie in her fire. She brings along a healing warmth as her fingers continue to treat his minor wounds.

“Ya don’ gotta do this.” She looks up at him, before smirking and chuckling.

“I feel like I owe ya that much.”

They bathe in the silence around them, the flickering flame to their right and the large fireplace bursting with life to their right. Her fingers wrap his hand in clean gauze, rubs a clear ointment over his cheekbone before sitting back on her heels on the bed.

“Alright, go take a bath.”

And he does what he’s told.

He allows his body to soak up the warmth of the bath, and he allows his mind to wonder to the fight that happened only hours ago. His hands clench and unclench with every memory that passes behind closed eyes. The memories of burning rage, heavy hits and breathless grunts filled his senses as he continues to relive those events.

He remembers the way John was cornered, pull aside by three men and punched. He remembers how Bill threw a chair at one man before throwing a poker table onto its side. He remembers Blair as she breaks a man’s arm in a way it should never bend.

He remembers his fist hitting a man’s skull with so much force it breaks his nose and throws him to the ground with a harsh thud.

He remembers Bill being thrown around like a rag doll.

He remembers being thrown though a window and into the mud below, grunting and groaning as his bones ache and his knees pop. His knuckles ache as he settles deeper into the water, hoping so soak away the dreadful ache that settled into his bones.

He remembers how she towered over the man she pulled from John, stepping harshly onto his throat until he clawed at her calf and ankle. The burning rage in her eyes, the harsh reality that this would be the last thing that man saw as he died under the sole of her boots.

He remembers the way her hands gripped his arm as she pulls him from the mud, the soft, childish smile that graced her lips. Her hand placing a thick money clip on the wooden bar as an apology.

He remembers her, in all her unchecked rage and in all her softness.

A scoff leaves his throat, breathing in steam from his bath before pulling his body from the only source of warmth.

He catches her looking over the map, tired eyes gazing over the drawn map that Hosea gave to him before they all left. Her fingers tap against the wooden desk as she searches for something within the sketched lines.

“John and Bill went to their rooms.” She states, and he notices how quiet her voice is when she talks to him. He listens to how her fingernails tap away on the wood, the soft _click, click, click_ tuning out the noise from the saloon outside.

They stand in each other’s company, awkwardly in more ways than one. Blair never looked at him, and he wasn’t sure where to put his hands other than in his gun belt. She sighed, he coughed.

“I should get to bed; we have an early morning tomorrow.”

She leaves before Arthur can get a word in.

.-.-.

The afternoon sun beat heavily on their backs. Its harsh; unforgiving; ruthless.

It leaves Blair complaining heavily as she throws her coat into her bag.

“I don’t remember it ever being this hot.” She snaps as she takes a swig from her metal canteen. Her hat is pulled close over her eyes.

“Will you shut it.” John snaps at her, and Arthur stifles a chuckle. Arthur’s perched on the edge of a cliff, looking through a pair of binoculars.

“ _Will you shut it.”_ She mocks him with a high-pitched voice, shaking her head and sticking out her tongue. “Fuck you, I’m not built for hot weather like this.”

It grows quiet as Arthur continues to look over the cliff. His belly is pressed into the hot sand, and he’s sweating through his shirt, but he’s not done looking around the factory.

“We’re gonna enter at night, John and I will take the left side, you and Blair will take the right side.” Arthur pointed over the edge, his fingers grazing along the horizon. He continues to lay out his plan, Blair closely listening from the shade. “From what I can see, the engine part of the factory is on the left side, but the textile part of the factory is on the right side. We’re gonna blow the engine room, and you guys burn the fabric. If we get separated, we’ll meet back up at the town a few miles out.”

“We should rest up before nightfall.” John stretched his arms over his head as he makes his way over to the tent he set up an hour ago. Bill sat around the fire, nursing a bottle of rum and cooking a fillet of rabbit he shot earlier.

Arthur had stayed planted on the cliffs edge, his journal placed in front of him and charcoal staining his fingers as he sketches out the textile factory. He takes in the details: the women leaving the factory, the men who guard it with minimal fire power, and the payroll wagon that rolled in at a steady trot.

Blair laid against the tree; her hat sat comfortably over her eyes as she tries to relax her body in the sweltering heat. The sun beats down on her left side, burning away at her skin before it falls below the mountain line.

The birds squawked, the cicadas clicked, and their horses nickered before everything fell silent to the sound of crackling fire, and Bill’s sputtering over his alcohol.

The moon rose high in the sky, the howls of wolves echoed through the sky along with the calls of nocturnal birds.

John kicked Blair’s foot, but she tripped him on his way over her legs. The air left his lungs with a heavy exhale, only to scowl at her as he looked over his shoulder.

“Don’t kick me next time.” Her snarls are quiet, still laden with sleep, but she still bares her teeth like a wild animal.

Time passes, and so does the night. She notices how quiet Bill can get when he’s working. He’s quick with his hands, but he still stumbles over things that keeps Blair on her toes.

She’s only doing that because he’ll mess up something, and she’ll have to shove him out of the way and fix it before he blows them up.

“We’re supposed to _burn_ the fabric, not blow it up.” She snaps at him as he drags a guard from the line of sight.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.” Blair scoffs as she starts to soak the fabric with bottles of alcohol.

“I didn’t know they gave _drunkards_ jobs.”

“Don’t you start, _woman_.”

“I have a name. Start using it, or you’ll lose your balls.”

There was a loud explosion that shook the factory. Alarms started to ring, and most of the women and two men started to file from the upstairs section of the factory.

Shots rang from the men who yelled at both Blair and Bill, but Blair was the first to shoot them both down. The women screamed, fear lacing their bodies as Bill growls.

He climbs the stairs as graceful as a bull, and he starts pushing the women down without a care. Blair does her best on catching the women as they come down, their hands shaking from the fear and the smell of smoke filling their nostrils.

A woman falls down the stairs with barely any time to get up on her own and Bill grabs her from her arm, guiding her down the stairs.

“You need to be more careful, _Bill_.” Blair’s hands pulled the woman from Bill’s iron grip, and she leans her body into Blair's. “You can’t go manhandling people like that.”

Blair does her best to guide them all out of the building before setting the place ablaze. She struck a match on her boot, lighting the cloth that stuck out from the bottle of moonshine.

She squints at the hot blaze that bursts from the building, her feet stumbling out of instinct from the heat. The flames roar, they burn in a rage that makes her stomach hurt. These people were just trying to make an honest living, and because of some rich woman – a woman with a power-hungry mind that’s worse than her brothers – they just ruined all of that.

Shots rang out, more than what she would be comfortable with. Hoof beats thundered; the yells of men echoed through the night. John yells out from behind a wagon as shots rang out more.

“The law!” her black scarf covered her face, but her hat was shot off her head by the time she found cover.

Arthur and John were pinned, Bill’s back was against the closest barrel he could find, and she was backed into a crate that was disintegrating as the seconds went by. Her heart pounds deep in her chest, leaving an ache in her ribs.

Her ears start to ring, her hands start to shake, she chokes a sob.

_Why now! Not now!_ she thinks but she’s paralyzed in the moment her thoughts going back and forth between this world and her own.

The world she knew before, with smartphones and TV’s and cars.

She’s forgetting herself, entirely and helplessly. Blair used to be a good woman, with honor and respect and now she’s here in a world that doesn’t know her with hands covered in blood and a tongue sharper than a butchers knife.

She feels a searing pain in her side, and she cries out with helpless wail. It’s high pitch, almost uncharacteristic of her as she looks over with what’s left of the crate she was behind.

Her body feels frantic, filled with adrenaline and a sliver of fear. She shivers and shakily grabs at her pistol, shooting over the crate before running over to a different spot to hide. Her left hand is pressed into her side, her right hand aiming as best she can as she runs over to a small wagon.

Pain blooms in her thigh and she stumbles, dirt clinging to her clothes.

Her name gets called, she can hear the muffled syllables through the gunfire and the ringing in her ears. She ignores it all, taking her belt and wrapping it tight against her thigh – above her wound.

She curls in on herself, her body shivers and Blair weeps into her free hand. Blood soaks into ground below her as the fight continues.

She see’s Brandon through her tears, and for a moment she thought she was getting over it – getting over _him_. Brown eyes, bloodied hands, mangled body.

A nightmare.

She still blames herself for his death, though she’s not sure why. How could she when what happened wasn’t in her control?

And yet, she still believes she could’ve saved him.

The sounds of heavy footsteps cause her to flinch and cover her head with her arm, but a hand placed roughly on her shoulder is what causes her to cry out and claw away at the arm.

“ _Blair!_ Enough, _Jesus_ it’s me.” John’s voice is loud even in the fight, but the gunfire still causes her to seethe and snarl. “Arthur! I got ‘er!”

She feels heavy, as blood seeps through her fingers and her clothes.

“’m fine, _go!_ ” her words are slurred but sharp as her vision starts to tunnel but she still tries to push John aside.

Her head spins when she lifts it, but she’s growing tired as she pushes herself under the wagon and out of harms way.

Minutes feel like hours, and her breath grows shallow as her fingers itch for purchase in the dirt. Her nails are stained with blood and mud and her ears are still ringing. Her wound sting with every breath she takes, but it feels like it’s clotted by now.

Then there’s silence, and it sits heavy on her chest like an elephant. She gasps when she turns onto her back, but a whimper still leaves her throat in a bubble of pain.

“I thought she was ‘ere.” Arthur growls, snapping at whoever as someone loots the bodies – she can tell by the way some limp bodies fall when someone is done searching their pockets.

“She was, I left her right here.”

“Well, _she’s_ not here.” She tries to laugh, but it turns into a choking cough. There’s scuffling of shoes, and a roar of a fire, but all she sees when she looked to the right of her is Arthur, bending down to look under the wagon. “The ‘ell you doin’ under here?”

“Playin’ hide n’ seek…” she mumbles, then coughs before she takes his hand.

She’s dragged out, and the pain from before resurfaced as the dirt and rocks rub against her skin uncomfortably. A hiss leaves her teeth, and she snarls at Arthur just from the pain.

“Ya jus’ had ta get shot.” He tries to lighten the mood, and in some cases, he does as he looks over her wounds. He can see that there’s still a bullet in her leg, and it’s keeping her from bleeding out along with the belt. “Twice, no doubt.”

“Don’t start, Morgan.” She gasps for air as he helps her up. His arm starts to snake under her legs, and all she can do is snap at him, swatting away at his arm. “I can still walk, ya know.”

“Well, then, lets go.”

He takes her arm over his shoulder, presses his hand into her non injured side and makes their way to town.

“What’s with you always gettin’ shot, anyway?” she scoffs, limping at his side.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

.-.-.

Shaky fingers digging into her good thigh, a rag bundled up and pressed in between her teeth. Arthur was kneeled next to her, using the tweezers that were held over a fire moments before to pull the bullet from her leg.

Blair spits out the rag and lets out a long growl.

“Do you have the hot knife?” Blair seethes with sweat dripping down her temple and her nose. He all but hums in acknowledgement before he feels the tweezers grip the bullet. He pulls it slowly from deep in her leg and she lets out a blood curdling scream, her head thrown back against the bed. Her fist is thrown into her mouth and tears leave the corner of her eyes.

Arthur pulls the bullet out, pressing a heavy hand on the wound and throwing the bullet into Blair's abandoned glass of whiskey. Blood seeps through his hand and he sees that Blair is breathless, her chest heaving in short bursts as she whimpers and pants through the pain.

“We got one more thing to do.”

“ _Do it_.” Her voice is hoarse, heavy with emotion. Arthur gently grabs her shaking hand, running his thumb over her knuckles before telling her to press onto her wound. Her hands shake too much, but she still manages to press her hands there.

Once the hot knife is in his hand, and he’s places himself back next to her. He moves her hands with care, listening to her pant from the pain and the adrenaline.

“On three.” She nods, weakly grabbing at the cloth she spit out not that long ago and shoving back into her mouth.

“One.” He unconsciously moves a strand of her hair from her face, his eyes boring into hers.

“Two.” He grips the knife tight, licking his chapped lips as he prepares himself. Blair’s hand is placed on his wrist, but it’s not as heavy as he thought it would be.

“Three.” The tip of the knife presses against her flesh, and she lets out another scream into the rag. Her nails dig into his wrist and he winces ever so slightly but continues to press the knife against her leg until he smells the faint scent of burnt flesh.

Once the knife is thrown to the side and he presses a cool, wet rag to the wound, he looks up at Blair who is leaned against the foot of the bed with her head thrown back. Sweat drips down her temple, down her jaw, down her neck.

It took him a minute to see that tears were mixed into that.

Arthur is hesitant in his movements, but he pushes a few more strands out of her face and she leans her hand into his touch with closed eyes. A hum reverberates through her chest, as her eyes flutter open.

For someone so deadly, she turns into a pile of mush when the right buttons are pressed.

She looks exhausted but her eyes still open, though only half way, “I think I like you more than I planned, and I value you in my life,” she sighs, pulling her head away from his hand, “but you can be so much to deal with.”

He chuckles, leaning forward to press his forehead to hers.

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“Good, cause that’s all your getting.”

He puts her to bed, the fire roaring with bloody rags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you noticed anything but I deleted Hamartia (i didn't like how i was writing it), redid Annabel, and made a better plot. I think I'm gonna finish this story before I get that one out but I'm not solid yet. I know if I do it'll be easier for me to do that. If I post it before I finish this, I'll make a note of it but again, who the fuck knows. 
> 
> Next chapter I hope will be out soon, and I hope everyone is taking care during this quarantine. 
> 
> Another thing, I started playing Red Dead Online, so if any of you have a Play Station 4 and want to play with me let me know!! I need help!!


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